#again i am SO SO SO GRATEFUL
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 6 months ago
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With the end of season two comes a second redraw!
[Nov 2022] [June 2023] [June 2024]
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godbirdart · 7 months ago
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i've been so used to the online space where if you like a series or fictional character that someone else hates they will openly berate you and cut you out of their life and tell you to Go Die so when i got into a thing that a friend really didn't like and their only reaction was "i do not like it" and left it at that with no over the top reaction or lecture on Why The Thing They Don't Like Is Bad, honestly i felt like i met god
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shalom-iamcominghome · 3 months ago
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I've been doing a lot of reflection as of late, especially after this past class.
This past class was about the Torah and Tanakh in general, and the way the rabbi talked about the commandments (specifically the ten commandments) has made me really reflect on how I interpret them, specifically the fifth commandment, or honoring your mother and father.
This is a commandment I have wrestled with for a long time - in fact, it brought me away from g-d at multiple times. I was severely abused when I was incredibly young by my mother, and I used to feel insulted at the implication that I were to honor her while she got to live a better life. It was hypocritical, in my eyes.
But this rabbi surmised that this particular commandment was because parenthood is an act of creation, something that is like the g-d from which we come from. My realization is this: I don't think we're necessarily meant to take even these commandments literally.
I this particular commandment is more of a call to honor creation - creation is a gift, and like any gift, many people simply will not like it and will discard it. The person who abused me created me, but she did not honor creation. She didn't honor me, but I can still honor it.
I have started to honor creation much more. I'm too young, too unstable, not mature enough to be a father (though I fantasize about it), but I create all the time. I create relationships, I create with my hands through crochet. I create memories, I create my world. And I can honor who I am and where I came from that made me who I am. I've been learning one of the mother tongues of my family (Italian, since part of my family originates there) and it was judaism that inspired me to do this.
I don't think g-d wants me to honor my abuser. I think He wants me to remember the Holy action of creation. When I am a father, that act of creation will be Holy, and indeed, I am already joyful about the thought.
I have seen many people struggle with this particular commandment, but I think this perspective helps me personally. I don't think I ever have to forgive my abusers (plural), and I don't think I am commanded to simply because they happened to be family. I am commanded to recognize the holy, to elevate the mundane. In doing so, I will remember g-d. Through creation, I honor g-d and everything he has done for us, for me, and for our collective people.
#jumblr#jew by choice#jewish conversion#personal thoughts tag#abuse tw#i am not sharing this for the sake of pity and i also ask not to be told to divulge my abuse story. that isn't relevant#i have been needing to engage with this topic for a long time though and judaism has helped me a bit in navigating healing#but i decided to share this publicly in the hopes it will help other survivors specifically of familial/parental abuse#i know how it feels (in general). it's so lonely and you can really harbor (understandable) baggage about this particular commandment#i have a meeting with My Rabbi (sponsoring rabbi) and i might bring this up. we've only spoken once face-to-face (zoom)#so that might be really Intense to bring up to him but he is very kind and i trust him (which is why he is My Rabbi)#and he has already told me that he WANTS me to wrestle with g-d and His word *with* him#again i am posting this publicly so i can document my thoughts and keep them straight but also with the hope it MIGHT help others#if it even *casually* inspires another survivor i will feel so grateful (though it is THEIR achievement and not mine to claim)#i want us to survive. i want us to eat well. i want us to smile#i will say that this must be a very sudden whiplash in tone from my last post about sex. from sex to awful horrific abuse#my stream of consciousness is just Like This though in the sense that i have very sudden realizations and tonal whiplashes#so you're just getting a very frank look into how my brain is structured and what my brain thinks are important enough to think about#if i seem much more verbose it's because i needed to write this on my laptop which makes typing and more importantly yapping even *easier*
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notbecauseofvictories · 23 days ago
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it's so interesting talking to and around my father, because personality-wise we are extremely similar (so much so that sometimes I'll say things, then my mother will go quiet and respond...you know, you sounded just like your father) but I grew up as a woman, and he grew up as a man, and that does that make an appreciable difference.
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ahappyphjl · 2 months ago
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i’ve been trying to come up with something to say about the one year anniversary of dapg being back, of dan and phil being back, of us being back.. but it’s all so overwhelming all i can say is thank you and i wish for life to always be like this – feeling safe and joyful, supported and accepted, and hopeful for the future, because we have each other and dan and phil
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xoxoemynn · 9 months ago
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Hello OFMD crew! I love you and I'm happy you're here. 💕
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vanmarkus · 9 months ago
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9-1-1 SEASON 7: FAVORITE MOMENTS ↳ part 15/?
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uhbasicallyjustmilex · 2 months ago
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Life on Tour // One Man Band Europe Tour 2024 🖤
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marimbles · 19 days ago
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It seems to be pretty well established that most fanfic authors don’t mind when readers leave comments on old fics and in fact welcome it. But what about authors replying to old comments?
Do readers care in general whether an author replies? Is it expected and seen as rude if they don’t? Is it nice when they do but not expected? Is there a time limit to the welcomeness of replies? Like is it nice if they respond within a few weeks but if it’s been months or years it feels awkward because you don’t remember the fic anymore? I’m curious!
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basketobread · 6 months ago
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You’re genuinely so funny. You should seriously make some kind of comic
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omg this is such a late response but i hope you know that i made this EXACT face when reading this. thank you SO much!!! i really would love to make a comic soon featuring my oc's or something... maybe i'll get around to planning one eventually. but comics aside, your words mean SOOO much. THANK YOU AGAIN!!!! 😭😭😭❤❤❤❤
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nicosraf · 5 months ago
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I was forced to count how many total copies of ABM (and A&M) that i've sold (because my agency asked me to) and it nearly gave me a panic attack but I'm so intensely grateful for each book ever sold and I feel forever in debt to you all but it's also so so intensely overwhelming. how did this happen.
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crownedwille · 5 months ago
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suddencolds · 8 months ago
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Atypical Occurrence [1/?]
Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)
Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)
Vincent is late.
Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early. 
In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.
It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.
Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.
Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him. 
“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”
Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.
It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.
Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.
Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.
Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.
It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.
He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.
Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.
“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.
Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.
“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.
“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.
He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.
He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.
“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.
“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”
Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.
Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.
Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.
The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.
Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”
A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.
He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again. 
“Bless you,” Yves says.
“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.
It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—
“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”
“Bless you again.” 
Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.
Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.
Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of…”
“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.
Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”
“I’m… feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”
The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside. 
“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.
“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”
“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”
Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”
“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”
It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.
The elevator doors slide open.
“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.
The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.
Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.
Vincent doesn’t show up.
“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”
“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.
“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.
But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?
He finds some time just before lunch to text.
Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!
He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.
“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.
“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.
To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.
It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.
V: Sorry to get back to you so late.
Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.
V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.
Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.
Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 🤨 Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??
V: I meant to pack them yesterday.
Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me
V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental
Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A  Y: you need anything else? 
V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door 
A beat. Then Vincent sends:
V: Sorry to trouble you
Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.
It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.
Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.
Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.
For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.
But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.
It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum. 
Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.
There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.
He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.
It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—
“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”
The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once. 
“Bless you,” Yves says.
Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”
“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”
Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise. 
“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I… it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.
The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”
Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”
“Have you eaten, then?”
Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I… was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.
Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work. 
“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.
“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.
Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”
“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”
Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”
That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.
Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”
“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.
Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside. 
Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.
There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.
Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.
“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.
“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough. 
The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.
If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.
The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom. 
By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.
“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take. 
“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”
“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.
“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”
It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.
“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.
“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”
“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”
Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”
“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”
Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that. 
Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.
[ Part 2 ]
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spaceratprodigy · 6 months ago
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Ooh palettes 🥰 Jasper and Faith in either Malabar squirrel or cherry pie?
@darkfire1177 — [ palette prompts ]
✨ The Unplanned Variables ✨
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hanafubukki · 8 months ago
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Happy Three Year Anniversary 🥹💚🌺
It’s my three year anniversary since I first started writing fanfics on tumblr. I think back about the first time I published fanfics on here and everyone I met along the way because of that one moment of time.
When I took that step to allow myself to express/be myself and publish something I wrote. It led to meeting so many wonderful people here and irl and I am forever grateful to myself and to all of you.
I am forever grateful for all the encouragement you all give me and I can’t say it enough. Be it comments, asks, reblogs, likes, tagging or what have you.
Everyday is fun and brings a smile to my face. I look forward to the future because of it.
So really, thank you everyone. I’m so happy to have met and interacted with you and hope to continue to do so ☺️💚🌺
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ohharrypls · 2 months ago
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I took this letter to a memorial but wanted to share here too.
"Thank you Liam so much for being in my life and shaping so many childhoods. Thank you for giving us love, support and encouragement through your and One Direction's music during the hard times and highlights of our lives.
You were a kind, generous and charitable person who encouraged so many to follow their dreams and be as kind as you were. You had the kind of smile that shone in your eyes, brighter than any star, and gave us so much comfort.
Thank you again so much for the music that helped me get through everything life threw my way.
I don't want to say 'goodbye' but instead see you later. Thank you for everything. You made me strong.
Rest in peace, My Angel
I can't say thank you enough, but truly thank you for everything Liam. I can't believe you're gone. I've lost count of how many days its been, but each morning I keep waking up expecting the news to change, but it doesn't 💔.
I keep saying each night "I'll see you tomorrow. Things will be different tomorrow.", just so I can sleep and have hope for tomorrow, but the news still doesn't change 💔. But one tomorrow, we all will see you again.
Songs I keep revisiting whenever I miss you tons is You're Beautiful by James Blunt and Drops of Jupiter by Train. I think they capture the type of person you were, beautiful inside and out. An angel. And at peace now. ❤️
Whenever I need reassurance, I'll look to the sky, because I know that's where you are now.
Rest well
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