Traveling, dancing in airports, humming the same songs, often not caring about the world that exists beside us—you and me, against the world.

I’ve thought this before, and now I’m more certain of it than ever.

My father loved other women more than he loved my mother, and perhaps, in a psychologically twisted fate, I’ve made it my destiny to forever be the ‘other woman.’

Maybe it’s my way of trying to feel closer to the love I never received from my father, hoping someone will love me the way he loved those other women, instead of my mom.

What a fate.

Something I love so much about you is that when you notice I’m about to fall off a mental cliff (spiral), you just recklessly distract me out of it by any means. I hate it, but it works. You pull me back, and just like that, the cliff disappears, and I no longer want to jump.

I think I’m used to cutting off pieces of myself to keep people warm. I might try to change, but it won’t work.

It’s a strange place to be, feeling this needy. Craving someone’s company every second of the day. I used to be the girl who craved solitude, who did things on her own, who got lost in her mind, cradled melancholy, and drowned in the blues.

Now, I’m afraid to be alone with my thoughts.

Will I ever escape the sadness that is in my heart?

The worst men make the prettiest girls feel ugly.

Fuck that love that doesn’t wipe my tears or hold me when I’m down.

Being happy sometimes terrifies me. It makes me anxious because, as flawed as it is, I believe that life is designed to move in cycles, where every high comes with a low.

He’s sitting in front of me, perfect in every way. I adore every inch, every crease. And I think to myself, how is this real? How am I feeling this way? And more shockingly, why is he gazing back with the exact same emotions, as if he can read my mind?

I keep falling in love with him more every day. I’m completely smitten.

It’s almost too uncomfortable. Why can’t things be bad again? Why can’t I count on sadness to be steady? Being happy means an inevitable sadness will follow. But for now, damn. I might as well fall.

I’ve walked away, but the farther I walk, the more paralyzed I feel.

This city feels too small, almost suffocating at times. There’s so little to do to take your mind off things, so I confine myself.

There are only so many Friday nights you can spend alone before it gets to your lonely self.

How many Friday nights must you spend alone, longing, waiting?