> Because that’s the thing, about hearts—broken or aching or otherwise.
They don’t belong to any one time or place. We carry them with us: bruised
and scabbed over, healing and changing, always and inherently our own.
“I love you,” Henry tells me. And there’s room for that, too. Every
broken heart keeps beating, in the end.
So will mine; so will his.
So will yours.
— Nov 21, 2025 02:42AM
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