It’s funny, the feelings that can come from a well told story. On top of having been sick and sore, my heart ached. It hurt from the narrated loss and cinematic sadness. It hurt from pasts and long-ago broken hearts. It hurt without cause — or, at least, with little cause.
I’m all too adept at breaking my own heart under the weight of hopes and dreams, but they’re made to feel and hurt and break, aren’t they? They’re made to withstand the scrambling, fracturing, shattering. If not for that then what were they created to do, these little bomb shelters in our chests?