When someone won’t let you in, eventually you stop knocking.
Missy, is it?
The kind of love letters I write are the ones you read in bed, stretched out under the sheets with one hand between your legs.
Can you see me? All of me? Probably not. No one ever really has.
…and sometimes it takes a little bit of growing up to realize that love is never just about how much your heart swells when you’re with someone. There’s a lot of other baggage, and people, and situations.
Everyone is super open-minded. As long as you think exactly like them.
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