That’s the thing about depression. When I feel it deeply, I don’t want to let it go. It becomes a comfort. I want to cloak myself under its heavy weight and breathe it into my lungs. I want to nurture it, grow it, cultivate it. It’s mine. I want to check out with it, drift asleep wrapped in its arms and not wake up for a long, long time.

I didn't know it was possible to simultaneously hate and ache for someone.

And then this — the moment he calls my name — is the real moment everything changes.He is no longer St. Clair, everyone's pal, everyone's f.

Some of us wear our hearts. Some of us carry them.