"People ask why I still look for him in a crowded room," she said. "And I tell them I don’t know why."
"But maybe it’s because he was my light."
"And maybe I am tired of feeling blind."
Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #57 (via blossomfully)
I’m not for everyone. I’m barely for me.
Do you remember how empty you felt the day someone you loved left? Doesn’t matter who it was, doesn’t matter how they left. Just feel that feeling inside your chest, the emptiness, the aching, the numbness, the sad, the cold. It feels so empty that you can physically feel it, right? You don’t want to get out of bed because there’s nothing worth waking up for. You consider suicide. Now imagine being that way since you were little. Imagine that depression is decades long of the same heartbreak. Imagine that you feel this way when you wake up, sometimes for no reason at all.
Do you remember the last time you faced one of your fears? Doesn’t matter what fear. One that most people can relate to is public speaking. Do you remember how scared you were? Do you remember feeling everybody’s eyes on you? Do you remember shaking? Imagine feeling that all the time. Imagine that every second of your life is a presentation and the whole world is an audience.
Do you understand it now?
2:46 p.m. (Maybe if I explain it this way, more people will understand)
You didn’t even care and that fucking hurts.
I’d care if the person I reblogged this from committed suicide.
How many times was I there for you?
Every. Fucking. Time. I didn’t even care if I was busy.
How many times did you even think of talking to me when I was down?