“Is it by Jane Austen? Or maybe you’re a Hemingway girl. Or Edith Wharton?”
There are no guarantees, no safety net. And isn’t that the greatest risk? The risk of being seen. The risk of showing someone who I am and having them reject me anyway. But what’s the other option? To always stay hidden. In stories. In letters and texts. With the subterfuge of trying to be someone I’m not, to deny the things I feel.
I might not end up with the guy. But I can at least be the heroine in my own story. I’m not going to be ashamed of my feelings. I’m going to be brave enough to tell the truth.
“Pooh is my philosophical guru. Nothing bothers him. He accepts life as it is. He’s very Zen,”
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