In This Moment

After all of it… the good, the bad, the in-between… If I told you that I love you, what would you say?

All we get are moments, Cole. One at a time, like heartbeats. Once all of them is gone, that’s it. No do-overs. No repeats. Every moment possesses its down kind of magic and what we do with it counts. It counts.

And even if you’re angry or ripped up inside, you’ve got to understand that once she’s gone you won’t be able to go back. Not ever. All we get are moments, Cole. One at a time, like heartbeats. Once one of them is gone, that’s it. No do-overs. No repeats. Every moment possesses its own kind of magic and what we do with it counts. It counts.

And if she wanted to, she could reach into my chest and rip my heart out of my body because it already belongs to her.

And on the bad days I'm not even sure that I exist anymore. Today is a bad day.

Don't you get it? No one has ever been anything to me until you.

Do you hear that sound? It's the sound of the world ripping apart.

Every couple of days I have to remind myself that I’m really okay. And it’s not the pretend kind of okay. It’s the kind that you feel from the inside out. It’s the kind of okay that has me thinking about outfits and coffee first thing in the morning, and homework that’s due later this week, and that I need to call Jodi back, and what Cole’s abs look like when he flexes. It’s the kind of okay that makes life a zillion times more bearable and also has me waiting for the other shoe to drop.    I

Every moment possesses its own kind of magic.

Her. One word. A simple pronoun that seems like an entire vocabulary.

His fingers trace letters on my flesh. He's handing me back my own words. This is real

I discovered that normalcy can be like an extra layer of clothing that you put on in the morning.

If she wanted to, she could reach into my chest and rip my heart out of my body because it already belongs to her.

I have a theory that the world is broken up into two kinds of people."
"Yeah?"
"Yep. On the one side are the people who love the Harry Pottery books and wish that they could attend Hogwarts and have Ron and Hermione for best friends and vanquish Death Eaters and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
She's smiling at me, and she's just so fucking cute. I have to ask: "And the other side?"
Aimee shrugs. "Douchebags.

I'll never forget it because it was such an odd thing to say. She told me that she'd be you. You, Aimee. She cupped her hand to the place where my heart beat under my skin. Maybe you aren't wrong. Maybe she is inside of you. But I don't think she's making a racket because she's trying to get out. I think she just wants to make sure you know that she's there.

It’s hard to say how it happens. How all of the bits of me – even the broken ones – start to tumble. I think it’s my toes that go first. Next – my legs and the hallow spaces behind my ribs. And then my arms all the way down through my wrist bones to the tips of my fingers. My lips part and I realize that this is what it feels like to fall.

Love isn’t an accident or something that just happens when you’re not looking. Love is a choice, not a chance.

Maybe you aren’t wrong. Maybe she is inside of you. But I don’t think she’s making a racket because she’s trying to get out. I think she just wants to make sure you know that she’s there.

My first love is reading. My second love is pizza.

Nobody wants to know about the nightmares or the riptide of memories constantly trying to drag me under. The world doesn't want to be forced to look at my scars.

Okay. Scrabble, donuts, flowers, corndogs, pre-pubescent British wizards and indie music. Am I missing anything important?”

She’s still blushing and it’s like the heat in her face is trapping all the words inside of her. “What is it?” I ask, an involuntary grin tugging on my mouth. I love it when she blushes like this.

Amy sighs, looks up toward the chandelier, “You, Cole. I like you.

Real life is me searching for answers but winding up feeling more lost than ever.     Looking

She doesn't see me the way that I see her.

She looks skeptical. “A bird attacked you?”     “Not quite.” I give a chagrined sigh. “A bird shit in my eye.

So say what you have to say but don’t ask me to understand or see things your way. You don’t get my permission to break my fucking heart.

Then I'd say that I'm fucking sick and tired of getting in the way of myself.

We don't want to lose you. Didn't she realize that I was already gone.

What if this is all that I am? Chaos and shadows. Confused memories desperately seeking out the light. What if all the bits of me that meant something good are still trapped in that mangled car? What if I was able to crawl through that window, but I never really got out?     “It

You, Cole. I like you.

You don’t get my permission to break my fucking heart.