En Eski Shadow Me Gönderileri
En Eski Shadow Me kitaplarını, en eski Shadow Me sözleri ve alıntılarını, en eski Shadow Me yazarlarını, en eski Shadow Me yorumları ve incelemelerini 1000Kitap'ta bulabilirsiniz.“I’m sorry,” I say. “I get it.”
He looks up. Meets my eyes. “Do you?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I don’t think you do, actually. In fact, I hope you don’t. I wouldn’t want you to know how I feel right now. I wouldn’t wish that for you.”
“Have you seen her yet?” I ask.
And then, so quietly I almost miss it— “No.”
Shit. This kid is breaking my heart.
Somehow, I’ve become amagnet for pain. Other people’s pain. My own pain. The thing is, I have no one to blame but myself. I ask the follow up questions that land me here. I care too much. I make it my business when I shouldn’t, and I only ever seem to get shit for it.
“Fine.” Winston’s face darkens as he hands it over. “You monster.”
I take the cup. “I’m a goddamn joy.”
Somehow I can’t help but be reminded, all the time, of my own solitude.
I’m so happy for my friends. I love them, even when they piss me off. I care about them. I want their joy. But it still hurts a little when it feels like, everywhere I look, everyone seems to have someone.
Everyone but me.
Maybe it sounds weird to say, but I know I could love the shit out of someone. I feel it, in my heart. This capacity to love. To be romantic and passionate. Like it’s a superpower I have. A gift, even.
And I’ve got no one to share it with.
Everyone thinks I’m a joke.
“Are you just pretending to be dumb all the time? Or do you always talk like you’re drunk?”
“What?” I said again. “I don’t talk like I’m drunk.”
“You’re looking at me like you’re drunk.”
Shit, she was pretty.
She unhooked the hood from around her shoulders and crossed her arms. Her hair was long. Dark. Her eyes were deep. They were a light, honey color, bright against her brown skin. She was so beautiful it was scaring me.
“I know a lot of women who lost the right to dress like that under The Reestablishment. There was a huge Muslim population in Asia, did you know that?”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“I had to watch, quietly, as my own father sent down the decrees to have the women stripped. Soldiers paraded them into the streets and tore the clothing from their bodies. Ripped the scarves from their heads and publicly shamed them. It was violent and inhumane, and I was forced to bear witness. I was eleven years old,” she whispered. “I hated it. I hated my father for doing it. For making me watch. So I try to honor those women, when I can. For me, it’s a symbol of resistance.”