Picture this: me, half-drunk on cheap mortal wine, sprawled across a velvet chair like a fallen queen, declaring to the ceiling beams, “I...

Because the thought that drives me half-mad is this: what if I find you every time.

So here I am, throwing a mini tantrum in prose and calling it wisdom, testing out mortal remedies as if patience will save me.

The rule is clear. Comfort destroys potential. Walking away may feel easier, but it ends the story before it matters.

That every act of care, every small gesture, every moment of opening my heart, is a declaration: I know you could break me, but I believe you will not.