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π–πž π€π«πž π’π­π«πšπ§π πžπ«π¬ 𝐍𝐨𝐰

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π‘Šβ„Žπ‘’π‘› 𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑒, 𝑙𝑒𝑑 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘–π‘› π‘€π‘Žπ‘ β„Ž π‘Žπ‘€π‘Žπ‘¦ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘šπ‘’π‘šπ‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘¦ π‘œπ‘“ π‘šπ‘¦ π‘ π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘€.

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The most exhausting thing I've ever carried is the suspicion that everyone who loves me has simply made a mistake.

You said you could save me from everything, love, but can you save me from myself? Can you save me from the prison of my thoughts? Can you find every knot of my sorrow and untie it from me? Can you? Can you?

I don't fear being rejected. I fear being seen completely and still not being enough.

I feel like I'm just a candle without a thread, I just melt and don't light up anywhere.

Depression feels like being colorblind and constantly told how colorful the world is.

حسيΨͺ Ψ΄ΩƒΩ„Ω‡Ψ§ غريب ΩˆΨ±Ψ³Ω…ΨͺΩ‡Ψ§ غريبة Ω„ΩƒΩ† Ψ¨ΨΉΨ― Ψ£Ω†Ω‚Ψ·ΨΉ Ψ§Ω„ΨΆΩŠ Ψ£ΩƒΨͺشفΨͺ Ψ£Ω†Ω‡Ψ§ Ψͺآوي ΩˆΨ΄ΩƒΩ„Ω‡Ψ§ Ω‚Ω…Ψ± آاوي في Ψ§Ω„ΨΈΩ„Ψ§Ω…

They romanticized the wrong organ, the stomach is more emotional than the heart.