writtings old

writtings old

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Jun 9, 2018
Un romántico y joven escritor se muda a Londres para estudiar su carrera como profesor de literatura. Al llegar a UK se muda una gran y hermosa vieja casa. Mientras hace la limpieza de la mudanza encuentra una caja llena de cartas, pertenecientes al último dueño de la casa, Harry Hamilton. Esas cartas son la mas hermosa y triste historia de amor plasmada en palabras que el joven haya leído en su vida. ven, ¿Te gustaría leerla también?. ¡ADVERTENCIA! Historia con contenido homosexual. Si eres homofóbica/o te recomiendo NO leer esta fic.
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He wants to shout it from the rooftops. He can't, and that hurts. "Love isn't about finding the perfect person. Because, if you are measuring perfection based on society's standards, nobody is ever perfect, even though everyone spends their lives striving to reach a level of acceptance that is physically impossible, and destroy themselves from the inside doing so. No, love isn't about finding that person who is void of flaws, or who is, in a social sense, perfect. Love, in its entirety, is about finding someone who is overwhelmingly imperfect, but willing to grow and learn with you, and it's about finding that person perfect- complete with all of their flaws and imperfections. It's not about changing someone, or "perfecting" them; it's just seeing the person, whom you wish to spend your life with, and who would break the universe to see you smile, it's about seeing them, an imperfect human being, perfectly. Harry, in my very broken and flawed mind, is... perfect. He is all that is perfect and all that is sweet and kind and funny just plain weird, but I love him with all of the love my heart could ever wish to possess. I love him with a passion that could silence the world, a passion only seen in storybooks and movies. A raging, fiery, bittersweet, all-consuming passion called love." TW: Self-harm/mentions of rape

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