"Your heart," he says against my skin. "This foolish, beautiful thing. It's been bruised, hasn't it? ... But you still let it tug you forward, yeah? What a gift that is. To still wish and dream and want. To find the good. To wear it on your sleeve."
"It doesn't feel like a gift. ... It feels like a curse. Like I haven't learned my lesson. Like I'm setting myself up for disappointment."
— Dec 19, 2025 10:38AM
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