Moving On

More often than not, the person you wouldn’t mind burning cities for is the same person who wouldn’t mind leaving you in the re. You wouldn’t mind taking your life for someone who wouldn’t stop taking you for granted

May your grief leave you with empathy—enough to make kindness your home, come what may.

You’re not the kind of ower

you.

I remember everything about you, but nothing that I loved you for. I remember you laughing after seeing me in pain, hanging up calls, and smashing the door in my face. rowing hot tea at me, watching me sit in a corner, drenched in anxiety. I remember you sleeping in my arms and talking about someone else. Taking me to the movies and using a dating app while holding my hand. Trust me, I’ve a hard time letting go of people, even after they show me they don’t want me anymore, but my heart remembers everything you did to me. All because I loved you. All because I believed, for once, someone wouldn’t

choose to break my heart. But it’s been long since I’ve been sad, months since I’ve cried on the bathroom oor. Trust me, I’m glad I don’t love you anymore

I’ll watch 9 episodes of a show in one day, but keep postponing the last one.

When things change. When fate changes. I avoid watching it. I try not to make it to the end. I bury my curiosity and start another show. I go out and meet a friend. I do everything I can to not let the show end. But I know I’ve got to face the ending, no matter how much it terri es me, or how far I try to run away from it. I know the show has already ended. I know the ending won’t change. is is not about shows

I held you on days when even the sun refused to bring you light, but you abused my kindness and left me alone that night. I hate what you did to my heart

Your eyes tell me what he’s doing to your heart, there were sun owers in them the last time I saw you, and now, they’re all wilting apart

Someone who has been loved by grief all his life will of course fall in love with the person who makes him smile, because you can grow roses in the backyards of mansions full of empty people with ease, but it’s special—when

the ood breaks the last ower in a garden and someone picks it up, puts it in a vase lled with water, and looks at it with affection, the ower doesn’t survive, but at least it feels loved again

I detest your presence. I’m too scared of what your absence might do to me.