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I liked him first, but it doesn't matter. I still like him. That doesn't matter either. Or at least, it's not supposed to.

Elizabeth Scott

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Elizabeth Scott
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Little Alice, all hollowed out, so easy to smash into a million little pieces.
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I wants us to be real. I want to be just you and me. - Ryan
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He is nothing to look at, and yet I can’t stop looking at him. There is something beautiful in how his face is made, how all the tiny flaws blend together into something more perfect than perfection could ever be.
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Anger can try to break your heart, but sorrow is what will. What can. What does.
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Hope was supposed to be a good thing, but it was starting to feel like every other four-letter word you're not supposed to say.
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She looked at me for real and saw I was serious. She saw I knew she was for me like you know that tomorrow morning the sun will rise.
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I felt nothing all the time, and it had started to feel normal. It should have scared me, but it didn't.
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And yet here I am. Broken and bleeding on the inside, heartsick, I am here.
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I have been smashed and put back together so many times nothing works right. Nothing is where it should be, heavy thumping in my shoulder where my heart now beats.
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But the past couple of days I’ve missed you so much it’s felt like missing you is all I am.
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...sometimes, you have to break your own heart.
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This is the real unwritten rule: You don't want what you know you shouldn't. And I haven't just broken that rule. I have wrecked it, smashed it, and still... And still I want.
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Something in me, in my bruised heart, wakes up, and even though I'm terrified, I don't push the feeling away.
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Things change. Stuff happens. Life goes on.
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I want to care, but I don’t. I look at you and all I feel is tired.
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Grace is my favourite church word. A state of being. Something you can pray for. Something God can grant. Something you can obtain. Perfection is out of reach. But grace -- grace you can reach for.
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Talking about someone who makes you happy actually makes you happy.
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I'd forgotten how much feelings hurt.
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I want to lie down on the bench then, or better yet, on the grass, rest on something living and see if I can hear the dead underneath.
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What had been became what was and a story only works when you know the ending. When the people in it don’t seem like pretend. When you can think about that girl and how she was once upon a time, and see her. When you don’t already know the story is a lie.
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