I was 15 years old, laying on my bedroom floor, shaking and trying to shove my heart back into my chest after you told me you didn’t love me anymore and I’m covered in scars and there are still nights when I find myself trying to hold my bones together with bleeding hands and breathing gets hard but fuck, if I can survive you and the way you tore me apart I can survive anything.
And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever.