I don’t trust people who say they have a lot of friends. It’s a sure sign that they don’t really know anyone.
—Carlos Ruiz Zafon (via ruineshumaines)
Honestly, for my birthday, all I want is a giant bed, I’m talking like an I Dream of Jeanie bed that takes up an entire room, and everyone brings a bottle of wine and we lay in bed in our pajamas and drink the wine while watching all of our favorite tv shows and all anyone has to bring me are witty comments. That’s all. I just want to be drunk with all my friends in a bed and be sarcastic about everything.
Why must summer always smell so like heartbreak?
Here is what I want to say:
Last week I found your sweater in my closet. I looked at it, didn’t quite know what to do, and without really thinking I bunched it up in my hands and smelled it. It didn’t smell like you anymore.
I am a coward.
I miss talking to you.
Here is what I will say:
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I do miss you. I know you think I don’t, and after all of this I cannot imagine that you miss me. But I miss you. When I was trying (vainly, as usual) to fall asleep last night I remembered opening my door and stepping into your hug and feeling so safe—your arms wrapped all the way around me.
I miss our nights on my rooftop, drinking too much wine and telling too many secrets and staying up too late and analyzing every feeling and every thought and every fear.
I miss the way you understood me and the way I understood you, and I miss our friendship so, so much.
But, as usual, I have treated you badly, and I am too much of a coward to come to you and say “I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I miss you.”
“Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”
(A.A. Milne, “Winnie the Pooh”)
““Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing
there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.”
Most friendships, if they end at all, end not by earthquake but by erosion. Your time together, which you used to take for granted, becomes something you need to schedule. Slowly you’re aware that the easy intimacy you shared got lost somewhere. You talk more and more about the past.
—Box Office Poison (via synecdoche)