ILS ME RIENT TOUS AU NEZ

Sometimes love is not romance, but chronic exhaustion of the soul. When instead of sleep, you analyse other people's messages, and instead of serenades, you have an internal monologue of reproaches and self-defence. It seems like you just wanted to be kind, but it turned out to be ‘too much’: too caring, too serious, too real. And then it's hurtful - because even anger comes with a touch of tenderness, and pride comes with traces of sleepless nights. All that's left is to wrap yourself in a blanket, lay your head on the pillow, and convince yourself that helping ‘without being asked’ is not a weakness. It's just a side effect of a heart that hasn't yet learned to rest.