I think back to what Landon said about heartbreak, that if you don’t love the person, they can’t break your heart. Hardin repeatedly breaks my heart, even when I don’t think there are any more pieces to break. And I love him. I love Hardin.
Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.
I feel as though I am ice and he is fire. We are so completely different, yet the same.
I know this happiness that I feel isn’t going to last, and I feel like Cinderella, waiting for the clock to strike and end my blissful night.
Hardin is like a drug; each time I take the tiniest bit of him, I crave more and more. He consumes my thoughts and invades my dreams.
My thoughts are all over the place as I fall asleep, and images of clouded roses and angry green eyes flow through my dreams.
She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.
A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint
And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself. Because hurting herself would be so much easier.
