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But I don't want to be fine, not if it means she's going to let go of my hand not if it means we're going to go back to being polite strangers.

Tabitha Suzuma

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Tabitha Suzuma
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Writer
London
England
Tabitha Sayo Victoria Anne Suzuma
Hand
Means
Hands
Back
Mean
Strangers
Going
Polite
Stranger
Fine

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...and my loneliness, always my loneliness - that airless bubble of despair that is slowing stifling me.
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She can't just be a face, a body there has to be more than that, some kind of connection. And I can't connect, don't want to connect, with anyone.
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If I move, if I speak, if I so much as blink, I'm going to lose this battle.
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You cannot undo the past you can only learn to live with it, find some way of making peace with it, and move on.
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I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you of all people. Throughout my life you were the one person I could turn to. The one person I could always count on to understand. And now that I’ve lost you, I’ve lost everything.
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It's always nice being wanted. Even if it's by the wrong person.
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Lochie. The boy I once loved. The boy I still love. The boy I will continue to love, even when my part in this world is over too.
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It's horrible being ashamed of someone you care about it eats away at you. And if you let it get to you, if you give up the fight and surrender, eventually that shame turns to hate.
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Willa’s big blue eyes, Willa’s dimpled-cheeked smile. Tiffin’s shaggy blond mane, Tiffin’s cheeky grin. Kit’s yells of excitement, Kit’s glow of pride. Maya’s face, Maya’s kisses, Maya’s love. Maya, Maya, Maya . . .
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I mean, at the end of the day, what the hell does it matter who I end up with if it can't be you?
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There are no laws, no boundaries on feelings.We can love each other as much and as deeply as we want.No one, Maya, no one can ever take that away from us.
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Nothing can relieve the pain. Not crying, laughing, screaming, begging. Nothing can change the past.
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At the end of the day it's about how much you can bear, how much you can endure. Being together, we harm nobody being apart, we extinguish ourselves.
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I don't know when it started - this thing - bit it's growing, muffling me, suffocating me like poison ivy. I grew into it. It grew into me. We blurred at the edges, became an amorphous, seeping, crawling thing.
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At what point do you give up - decide enough is enough? There is only one answer really. Never.
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I want to tell her that I can't pull her down. I want to tell her that she has to let go of my hand in order to swim. I want to tell her that she must live her own life. But I sense she already knows that these options are open to her. And that she, too, has made her choice.
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Even though I'm surrounded by pupils, there is the invisible screen screen between us, and behind the glass wall I am screaming - screaming in my own silence, screaming to be noticed, to be befriended, to be liked.
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Pressed up against him, I can feel the thud of his heart against mine, his ribcase expanding and contracting rapidly against my chest, the warm whisper of his breath tickling the side of my neck, the brush of his leg against my thigh. Resting my arms on his shoulders, I pull back a little to get a look at his face. But he isn't smiling any more.
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He will think Lochan wasn't loved, but he was, more deeply than most people are in a lifetime.
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And this is something I must accept - even if, like acid on metal, it is slowly corroding me inside.
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