I wanted to write about my courageousness. I wanted to walk into September with a plan, with something that made my pain worth it. I didn’t want to admit that I was still empty handed. That I had lain twisted in my own agony and had given birth to nothing except for a strength I didn’t have before. And maybe a little more determination. But I was still here. Still a chink in the machinery of someone else’s heart. Hollowed out because I had buried my heart beneath so much dry dirt. But is it speed that matters, or direction?

 
**the cursor blinks and blinks and blinks**

It is the human heart that is increasingly raw. You can’t hide it because it lives in your eyes even when you close them. Even when you look away. Watching Atonement was like being scraped across the heart. I felt the “I love you” like I’d never been loved before. And I realized love wasn’t pretty like everyone had said. Love was a raging force. Impossible to bottle, impossible to deny. Some names turn your veins into fire, some names make you sober—

The reason why the pen falls to the floor in the film, now it makes sense.

Literature. A voice softer than honey. A girl.
A boy, fist clenched around the broken handle of a vase.

No words. The face says more than any tongue, in any language. At first you think it is pain, but you realize, it is love. Pain because of love, as if they are synonymous.

 
She’s otherworldly, because she’s a girl in a book. And him, he’s a boy in trousers, standing by a fountain holding the broken handle of a vase in his clenched fist.