The only thing worse than being sad is for others to know you are sad.
To feel alone is to be alone.
She was with me. She did all of those things and so many more, things I would never tell anyone, and she never even loved me. Now that’s love.
I spent my life learning to feel less.
Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does.
This is love, she thought, isn't it? When you notice someone's absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love his presence?