Marrakech, Morocco

It was a quiet limbo, she thought, when you cared too much to tell the truth but not enough to lie. The truth was always passively cruel, without motive or malice, yet sharper, colder, more pervasively unrelenting. She didn’t know what it meant to love, she knew that and could never admit it. A different breed. For her, love was not roses and rose-tinged words and easy daydreams of the future, but love was instead like sand, and you had to fight it, minute by minute, to stop it from slipping through your hands