words burn longer than paper

[451seconds]

My sister always said that falling in love was like driving through a rainstorm. Your entire body is tense and you’re absolutely on edge because you can’t see a damn thing clearly, but there are few words that describe the relief—your muscles relaxing and your held breath releasing—when you finally make it to dry, clear, open road, and you just know. You’re in love.

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #49 

[451seconds]

To be in love with him, she realized, implied an escape. In meant there was an out, and there was no out with him. There was only love.

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #48

[451seconds]

I just wanted to tell you that your words are beautiful, and I hope you write that book you keep saying you'll never write.

I think I’m going to take a break from tumblr and posting excerpts for a while (although I haven’t been posting much these last few months anyway). the past couple excerpts have been old drafts that don’t really reflect my current writing standard. instead, I’m going to focus on writing full-length stories. 

thank you for all your beautiful messages, and maybe I’ll come back in a few months with more than just short excerpts. 

[451seconds]

In a dark world, he was my lone star, my shot in the dark. But I found a sun within myself, and I don't need a dimly lit star to guide the way anymore.  That doesn't mean I'm not grateful. It just means I've finally placed my feet firmly on the ground and stopped wishing on shooting stars.

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #47 // the stars are fading, I am not

[451seconds]

Hi I was just wondering if you're in uni now or planning to actually make writing your job (or if it already is your job) because I love all of your excerpts and I'm an aspiring writer myself. My parents tell me all the time that I don't necessarily have to love my job but I totally disagree with that and Im just hoping there's other inspired people out there to help me along. Just curious... thanks x

I’m in college, although I don’t think I’m skilled enough to make writing my job (mostly because I’m so bad at doing the actual writing part). 

however, I do think you should do something that you enjoy. no amount of money will make you happy if the majority of your day is spent at a job you despise. if you want to be a writer, then write. 

[451seconds]

And he comes home late again with ruffled hair and an excuse they both know is worse than the last—but she bites her tongue because she doesn’t want to shatter what normalcy they have left. And he yells and he screams and he claims that he loves her when his voice holds anything but love—but she bites her tongue because she can’t fight back; she can’t turn this into a war. And he packs his things in the middle of the night when she should be sleeping, and he glances back one last time to find her awake, sitting up in bed, staring after him—but she bites her tongue because the words that would spill out would only be weak and pathetic and begging. And he passes by her months later, and when she tries to bite her tongue, her teeth cut so hard and quick that she can’t hold back any longer. Everything comes spilling out as she finds the taste of him still fresh in her mouth, and it’s dripping down her chin, and she can no longer control the flow of words unsaid and tears unshed—but he walks past her because he believes she never cared enough to say the things she truly felt. But she did care. She is going to bleed out from caring so much, and he won’t ever know.

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #46

[451seconds]

So that’s how he loved her; that’s how he loved everyone: like he was drowning, and they were air.

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #45

[451seconds]

Why is it the night's responsibility to wash away your sins of the day? Don't allow the moon to dictate your new start. The bravest of journeys begin in the broadest of daylight.

H.L. // things will change

[451seconds]

In an ask, you said the "451seconds" in your name is a combination of a book and a song. I'm not the same person, but I've heard of a book and I wondered; is the book "Fahrenheit 451"? The one where the firemen burn books?

yes

[451seconds]

When someone is stabbed, you’re told not to remove the knife. Once it’s removed, everything begins to fall apart. In less than ten minutes, someone could bleed out. She still isn’t sure which of them stuck the blade in her stomach, but she refuses to pull it out. Instead, she embraces it.  “Do you love me,” she asks, still not facing him, “or do you just hate the idea of losing me?” It’s silent, and she does not know how to read this situation. If she turned around, she knows the emotion would be clear on his face because he has always been an open book. For her, he will always be an open book. She doesn’t turn around, though, and she realizes that she doesn’t want to see his face—see the destruction that she’s caused.  He says her name then, and his voice is level; it twists the knife.  He says, “Why do you do this?” He says, “I’m not losing you. You’re running away.” And he says, “I love you—god knows that I love everything about you—but we’re falling apart. You’re tearing us apart."  Finally, she turns around, and she’s not sure what she expected, but it surely was not this. He’s cold, blank, torn apart and carelessly sewn back together. He is covered in her—covered in her heartbreak. "I need—” He clears his throat, hides any slip of emotion. “I need you to let me go because I don’t have the strength to do it myself.” And at that moment, she realizes this is no longer a game. All this time she thought she was being selfish with her heart, but this boy—This boy makes her wish things were different; he makes her wish that she was different.  That's why she sucks in a rattling breath, and that's why she forces those selfless words past her lips. She swallows the pain and tries to cure the heartbreak when she says, “You should leave."  He winces. He looks like he wants to take back his words. He looks like he wants to stay, and he looks like he wants to cross the room in three steps and pull her into his arms and stop her from slipping away like water between his fingers.  Looks, however, have always been deceiving.  He leaves, and he takes the knife with him.

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #44

[451seconds]

Do you think two broken people with the same problems can love each other?

from my endless supply of unfinished books:

[451seconds]

How do you can just stop talking to someone who you used to talk to every night til early morning?

I ask myself the same question. 

it hurts, though, doesn’t it? it hurts a lot. 

[451seconds]

"So," she says, "why did you leave?" "She'd hurt me so much that it had started to hurt her, and I couldn't stand to see her breaking like that." She says, "I think that's toxic." He says, "I think that's love."

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #43

[451seconds]

It's the devil on your back that stops you from speaking, covers your mouth with its claws. "Everything you say is a joke to them," it whispers. "No one truly likes you," it says. It has you running in circles trying to see something that isn't there because surely every whispered conversation is about the mess that is you. And you're constantly on trial, and you're always the judge because nothing you do is right in anyone's eyes, even your own. You'll review your own words a thousand times before you speak and a thousand times after, but still they're wrong, they're wrong, you're always wrong. So you'll sit there, the devil beside you, and you'll whisper back, "Yes, you're right." You'll lean your head on its shoulder, and you'll accept it for fact as you say, "I'm the joke that no one laughs with, only at."

H.L. // this is anxiety, this is me

[451seconds]

I think I'm going to kill myself but I don't know how to tell my boyfriend that I won't be around much longer. I don't want to hurt him but I don't think I can stay here anymore

it gets better. that’s what I am supposed to tell you, but some ambiguous and abstract wish for the future isn’t going to make you want to live because you’re hurting now. you want relief now. but you paused. you’re thinking about those you love, and you wrote this message, and you’re considering some sort of future because you just want to know that there is something out there that’s worth it, something that makes you worth it. so maybe it will get better, and I hope that it will, but I don’t know, and you don’t know, and no one really knows. we just hope, and that’s all that we can really do.so what do you tell your boyfriend, or your friends, or family, or anyone you love?you tell them that you’re scared, and unsure, and that you’re in so much pain, and then you try your hardest to rid your mind of those demons. if you don’t try to give yourself a future, you will regret it because life is beautiful. you just need help fighting through whatever is keeping you from seeing that.

[451seconds]

He calls you late at night, and you can’t help holding your breath, waiting for a drunk confession of love, because this must be the time that daydreams become reality. His voice is barely an exhale, but you hear every syllable because that’s how you always listen to him: so very closely. “Can you come pick me up?” It’s slurred, though his voice is just a whisper. He’s drunk, but he isn’t in love. So you slip out of your house, and you start the car, easily agreeing because it’s him. It’s him and it’s him and it’s him, and that is any and every excuse you’ll ever need. Street lights pass in a blur as you get closer and closer to him, and you don’t know why it’s always like this—why does every road and every map lead to this boy? You like to think that it’s fate. Your road ends where it always begins, and you stop in front of a bright house in the dark night, and various bottles and different people are scattered across the lawn, and there he is, walking toward you, and he’s drunk and he’s exhausted and he looks like hell, but it’s him—it’s him and it’s him and it’s him. He gets into the car, and he slumps in the passenger seat, and you want to say something—you want him to say something—but silence swallows you whole as you start the car and pull away from the curb. And you drive, and you drive, and you try to focus on the yellow lines in the center of the road rather than his ragged breathing or your erratic heartbeat, but the lines are blurred and your heart won’t still. Finally, he mumbles something, and you wish that you didn’t hang on to every word he says. You wish that this wasn’t fate’s plan because this is not the ending you’d always dreamed of. You wish that you weren’t listening close enough to hear him say her name, to hear him mumble, “She’s beautiful, and I don’t fucking deserve her, but god, I wish I did.” Because he’s drunk, and he’s in love. He’s just not in love with you.

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #42

[451seconds]

"You and me," she says, "we aren't eternal.  "However, this moment, this small lapse of time that may be a mistake or may be an act of faith—I honestly do not care which—it's real. It is heartbeats and stuttered breaths and soft skin and so, so very human. "So fuck forever because I live for the seconds that make up these minutes. I live for the clock striking the hour and the two of us parting ways and knowing that the goodbye won't destroy us. "Because you and me, we are simple, and we are enough."

H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #41