It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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originates from Persian roots, but found its way into the Urdu vocabulary;
combined together, it possesses a more intimate nature (as with anything that is joined with the prefix "hum") no definitive English equivalent; but the idea is that it means a close confidante, someone to pour your secrets into.
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»they say that Rome wasn't built in a day, but it burnt in one. and it makes me think of you, of how it took several heartbeats, countless moments, and endless mornings and endless nights—how it took a lifetime to build a home with you. it makes me think of how that home shattered in the blink of an eye. i stand amongst the debris and ashes of an old love, of a tainted love; it is the space between a black abyss and a full heart, the space between nothing and everything — this is where i float, lost and unguided. i cannot remember if there was ever a time when i was soft, if i was ever silk and feathers. i only know who i am now, and it feels like thorns and icicles, shards of glass and burnt metal. there flows an ocean of pain inside this heart, a chasm of grief and endless ache, and i see it pour down in torrents from the sky, the horrors i cannot speak roaring amongst the clouds and the sinking sun. and, oh, how i long for a safe space to take a little shelter from this storm. for a fireplace or a warm body. and your hands, oh, your hands. they catch each teardrop like a child dancing in the pouring rain, and i think — oh, here's my shelter. Rome might have not been built in a single day and yet burnt in one. and my heart might have taken a lifetime to love, yet eviscerated in a single beat — but, like Rome, i will be rebuilt. and within the shelter of your arms, i will learn to trust my heart again«
