I grew up telling myself that love didn’t exist. I grew up seeing so many marriages fall apart, and seeing so many people walk around like it didn’t bother them. I grew up in a house that always had a shaking roof, filled with curses and screams and the shatters of glass. And then you came. You came in, with your perfect family, and perfect life, and decided to turn my own upside down. You made me believe in love again, and then you showed me what it was like to love and fall in love. And then you decided to get rid of that. You took the fragile heart, that had just started beating again, and crushed it until it was just the sad remains of a relationship. You, the same person that had taught me how to love, showed me that love wasn’t real again. There was only pain, and loneliness. So, here I am. Venting out my feelings, 4 years later, over the keyboard, and cursing you and your stupid lips. Because you were the one who taught me how to love, and then once again showed me that love wasn’t real. But you know what? Maybe it is real. Maybe I’ve just been cursed, to never find love anywhere. But to me, love doesn’t exist. And thanks to you, I’m not sure it ever will.
— Excerpt from a book I will never write #1051 // does love exist?