Naz Quotes

I have a word problem for you." "I'm listening" "If Naz forgoes sleep, and Karissa gets naked, how many orgasms can he give her before sun up?

His full name is Ignazio Vitale, although once, not so long ago, he urged me to call him Naz. And it was Naz who charmed me, who won me over and made me melt. It wasn't until later that I got to know the true Ignazio, and by the time I met Vitale, it was far too late to just walk away.

Baharı yaz uğruna tükettik, aşkı naz uğruna
.. Ve papatyaları seviyor sevmiyor uğruna;
 derken ‘ömrü’ tükettik bir hiç uğruna…

But I don't want you to keep pretending you're okay. I don't want you to keep downplaying the hurt you feel like you're not even human. You keep it up - all these lies to yourself, to other people, and soon you're not going to know who you are.

I told you to make yourself at home," he says. "I don't want you to feel like you have to tiptoe around, afraid of doing something wrong or hearing something you shouldn't, like phone conversations." My blood runs cold at those words. I can feel his eyes on me and not the screen. "I, uh…" I don't know what to say. "It's okay," he says, those words silencing me. He kisses the top of my head again, subject closed as he goes back to watching the movie. A few minutes pass before Naz lets out a light laugh. "So, tell me something... did you at least google me?

I've never met a Naz before.

His and hers?" "No," he says. "I don't care which, but make sure there's no difference in the plates. I'd rather the chef not know which is mine." The waiter nods and disappears as I regard Naz curiously. "Why don't you want the chef to know?" "Because if he knows which is mine, he might poison it.

Just because you’ve lost all hope doesn’t mean you get to throw out hope for all of us.

Hayattan beklentilerimiz o kadar farklıydı ki. Ya kendi hayatımdan vazgeçecektim ya ondan.

Oysa hayat naz maz tanımıyordu. Kendimden biliyordum. Hayat hiç beklemediğin anda öyle kafa atardı ki, ağzın burnun dağılırdı. O zaman anlardın işte büyümek neymiş. Nasıl acı ve erken bir şeymiş.

What better way to deal with my own problems, huh? Ignore them and deal with other people’s.

Naz," I whisper. "What's going on?" "What's going on is your mother isn't happy to see you near me." "Why?" I ask, my voice trembling. "Who are you?" "You know who I am," he says. "The question you should be asking is who are they." "Mom," I call out. "Mom, what's happening? How do you know Naz?" She doesn't look at me, but I know she hears my words. Her alarm grows when I call him Naz. She pleads with him more. "Please, she's my daughter... my little girl.

been through enough. Don't do this to her." "I've done nothing to her," Naz says, his hand shifting higher, tightening around my throat. I gasp as he leans down, kissing my temple. "Nothing she hasn't wanted me to do." My mother's on the verge of hyperventilating. "Just let her go and let's talk about this. I'll give you whatever you want, whatever it is. Take me, but leave her alone. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything." Naz loosens his hold, and I breathe deeply, disoriented. "Johnny here?" "No." "Bet he went out the back door when he saw me, didn't he?

The thing about the end of the world was this: either everything mattered, or nothing did.

Maybe sometimes you had to live for someone else until you learned to live for yourself. Sometimes, they could be one and the same.

Naz is a work of art, confident in every aspect, and it’s certainly warranted. I just lay there, my body made of jelly, while he towers above me like fortified steel. I’m suddenly weak and helpless, oh-so-vulnerable and at his mercy, at his disposal, and he’s not dented even the slightest bit. I’m fucked. Literally. Figuratively. The man has fucked me in every sense of the word.

hand drifting up, resting at the base of my throat. He's holding me protectively, my armor against the brutal outside world, but my mother sees it differently. She lets out a panicked noise as she rushes forward, descending the small porch steps and wavering in the yard. "It's okay," I say. "It's fine, Mom." "Please let her go," she pleads, ignoring me, her focus on Naz. "I'm begging you. Let her go, Vitale.

Earth society has programmed us to keep our heads down and remain as these mindless drones. Everyone tells us we all have to follow the same blueprint: You gotta go to school. Graduate. Go to college, if you want the best job. Get married. Make babies. Work some more, get promoted. Then you retire. We want, and want, and want, and then we die. Then people say, Oh, what a great life that person led. But that's not living. It's just a way to exist.

He makes love to me then, like only Naz can, alternating between slow and deep and rough and hard, sending me into a tailspin. It's a breath-catching, skin-slapping, soul-capturing kind of love. The man owns me. He consumes me. Every part of me was made for every part of him. It's the kind of love I can't imagine ever living without. It's raw, and real, and it's ours. It's ours. It goes on forever. Life flashes before my eyes. We're old and gray and happy. We're happy. Nothing is going to get in our way now.

They don't sleep here." My brow furrows. "How do you know?" "I just know," he says. "I can tell by looking at it." Before I can ask him any more, the curtain in the living room moves. The door yanks open, my mother appearing, eyes wide. She looks frantic. "Karissa," she shouts, her voice high-pitched, full of panic. "Oh God. Get away from him, sweetie." I blink a few times, caught off guard, as Naz slips his arms around me, pulling me flush against him. One arm encircles my waist as his other settles along my chest,

You have succeeded, just by simply existing.

Don't wait for that special occasion. Today, tomorrow, and every day are special occasions. Use your saffron. She's worth it, and you're worth it.

Being gay is not a fruit-borne disease, you idiot.

Only five seconds of thought stand between you and a crap-ton of regret.

Where you live, where you love, where you breathe--that is where your home will be.

Tere nam py mujko Naz hy Tera naam GAREEB NAWAZ HY ya moin-ud-din

There are millions of shayaris and ghazals and songs that spin beautiful words about what love is: fire, wine, pain," he goes on. "But that is all passion. Feeling. Love, on the other hand, is an act. A practice. A descision." "Are you saying who you love is a choice?" "No, no. Who you have feelings for-that is not a choice. Feelings happen whether you want them to or not. But love isn't a feeling; it's the act of planting a seed and putting in the time and care it needs to grow. It demands hard work and renewal to survive. It demands commitment. By necessity, it cannot be take lightly.

Carpe Diem. The words are etched in the metal pendant. Tomorrow isn't a guarantee. Nothing is promised. So today? Seize the Day. That's how Naz lives his life. That's how I want to live it with him.

In the poem, Rumi banters with God over life's usual philosophical questions: what to do with that pesky thing called a heart, where to focus one's eyes, etcetera, etcetera. But when Rumi asks God what to do with his pain and sorrow, God tells him, "Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

Naz starts to walk out but pauses in the doorway of the den. "A word of advice?" "Uh, sure." "Judge him by his actions and not your suspicions," he says. "Because if the only measure of a man's worth is what he does to make money, a lot of good men would be judged unfairly." "Like you?" "Not like me," he says. "Not sure how many times I have to tell you... I'm not a good man, Karissa, and try as I might, I probably never will be.

Why?" "Why what?" "Why me?" He stares at me for a moment. "Why not you?

. . . there we pause. Mother and daughter at the rice pot. Tradition, culture, and the meaning of life contained in this one critical moment.

Rice is the crown jewel of Persian cuisine.

Part of him, I think, was also incredibly lonely, and lonely people know what to say to other lonely people.

Honey, I've lived long enough to know that begging your oppressors to spare you never works. You either fight back, or remind the ones you love there’s something still worth fighting for.

Chi sa ballare alla persiana?” domando. Tutte si voltano a guardare Sanaz. Lei si schermisce, fa di no con la tessta. Cominciamo ad insistere, a incoraggiarla, formiamo un cerchio intorno a lei. Quando inizia a ballare, piuttosto a disagio, battiamo le mani e ci mettiamo a canticchiare. Nassrin ci chiede di fare più piano. Sanaz riprende, quasi vergognandosi, a piccoli passi, muovendo il bacino con grazia sensuale. Continuiamo a ridere e a scherzare, e lei si fa più ardita; muove la testa a destra e sinistra, e ogni parte del suo corpo vibra; balla anche con le dita e le mani. Sul suo volto compare un'espressione particolare, spavalda, ammicante, che attrae, cattura, e al tempo stesso sfugge e si nasconde. Appena smette di ballare, tuttavia, il suo potere svanisce. Esistono varie forme di seduzione, ma quella che emana dalle danze tradizionali persiane è unica, una miscela di impudenza e sottigliezza di cui non mi pare esistano eguali nel mondo occidentale. Ho visto donne di ogni estrazione sociale assumere lo stesso sguardo di Sanaz, sornione, seducente e l'ho ritrovato anni dopo sul viso di Leyly, una mia amica molto sofisticata che aveva studiato in Francia, vedendola ballare al ritmo di una musica piena di parole come naz e eshveh e kereshmeh, che potremmo tradurre con “malizia”, “provocazione”, “civetteria”, senza però riuscire a rendere l'idea. QUesto tipo di seduzione è al tempo stesso elusiva, vigorosa e tangibile. Il corpo si contorce, ruota su se stesso, si annoda e si snoda. Le mani si aprono e si chiudono, i fianchi sembrano avvitarsi e poi sciogliersi. Ed è tutto calcolato: ogni passo ha il suo effetto, e così il successivo. È un ballo che seduce in un modo che Daisy Miller non si sognava neanche. È sfacciato, ma tutt'altro che arrendevole. Ed è tutto nei gesti di Sanaz. La veste nera e il velo - che ne incorniciano il volto scavato, gli occhi grandi e il corpo snello e fragile - conferiscono uno strano fascino ai suoi movimenti. Con ogni mossa, Sanaz sembra liberarsene: la vesta diventa sempre più leggera, e aggiunge mistero all'enigma della danza.

DEEN: What about you? KIRAN: Hmm . . . seeing the future! KIRAN: I want to be able to see the future. DEEN: Feeling anxious about the future? KIRAN: Yeah. Always. KIRAN: Especially lately. DEEN: How’s your mom, btw? KIRAN: To be determined. KIRAN: It’s just a waiting game now. DEEN: OKAY I know my real answer now!!! DEEN: Healing powers. DEEN: Definitely healing powers. KIRAN: Heh KIRAN: You’re a good guy, Deen. DEEN: Only for you.

Naan (the Persian word for "bread") at the table is not only a constant companion but a revered guest. Wheat is considered sacred, a symbol of life and the beginnings of civilization. Not a single crumb is ever to be wasted and should always be repurposed.

I have a complicated relationship with airports. A space that once held promise, the gateway to summer vacations and adventure, now makes my heart race a little faster, beat a little harder. A seemingly random red strip of tape on the ground, a dated stamp and ink pad, a place of birth forever etched on a passport, and a somber uniformed officer determine our future, our lives.... I wonder what new family is anxiously pacing back there, sleep-deprived and confused, hoping for that stamp to hit the ink, hoping to step into a new life.

They say when seeking revenge, dig two graves, one for you and one for them. I've buried them all, disposed of bodies and left a trail of charred remains in my wake, and now all that's left is my own grave. And I dug it, all right… dug it so deep there's no fucking way out of it.

These are the kinds of stews that bring us running to the family table. Whether the table is firmly planted in its destined place or lingering somewhere in between. The kind of stew that bridges the path to a new continent, a new country, a new life, a new kitchen with its own stories to tell.

Who you have feelings for—that is not a choice. Feelings happen whether you want them to or not. But love isn’t a feeling; it’s the act of planting a seed and putting in the time and care it needs to grow. It demands hard work and renewal to survive. It demands commitment. By necessity, it cannot be taken lightly.

That’s the beauty of siblings, I think. You don’t need words. After growing up in the same dysfunctional household for years, you develop your own special telepathy, your own secret language: of facial expressions only the two of you can read, of inside jokes only the two of you understand, of memories only the two of you share.

Scatter the herbs across the table, sit together, and pick off the tender stems and leaves. There is a meditative rhythm and ritual to it all. It's one of those rare times we are asked to slow down, and we are able to converse, to commiserate, to gossip, to air out grievances, to share secrets and dreams. Life happens in these spaces, amid a field of greens.

He shows me that, and I feel it, as he holds me tightly, making love to me. I'm sweaty, and exhausted, by the time it's over. My body is spent from orgasms, and my heart feels like it goes to explode. I say nothing, though, afraid to speak, afraid to offer him any words. Because if I do, I might spew a fucking rainbow. I might spout out the kind of nonsense found in Napoleon's romance novella. Naz lies on top of me for a moment after he finishes before finally pulling out. He stands up, gathering our clothes, tossing mine to me as I lay on the bed. "I'm sure now," I manage to say, as I watch Naz getting dressed. He turns to me. "Yeah?" I nod as I sit up, clutching a hold of my necklace. "I've got everything I want.

But in every shroud of darkness, there are small beings such as yourself who, when dealt a cruel hand by fate, still carry the strength to smile. Your smile breaks throught the dark, Your pain is where the light enters you. And your kindness is a guiding light for others. And that holds a power that even we fear. Small being, no matter what happens, never let that power go.

When I first moved out on my own, whenever my mom visited she would fill my freezer with individual containers of various stews, kookoo [Persian frittatas], aash [soups], and rice dishes.... These days when I visit my mom, I try to fill her freezer with some of these same favorites. The cycle always comes full circle. Hopefully with a packed freezer ready to serve, feed, and comfort.

There's something that happens to the newly displaced. Whatever power or choice that was stripped away in the process of reluctantly leaving one's homeland is fervently reclaimed in other situations, and honing in on the best spot to sit and enjoy a meal, be it at a restaurant or a lakeside, takes on the utmost importance. . . . If nothing else, we were always prepared for any and all circumstances and with plenty of provisions to see us through.

Mari— Interglactic beings have watched Earth envelop itself in darkness for millennia. But in every shroud of darkness, there are small beings such as yourself who, when dealt a cruel hand by fate, still carry the strength to smile. Your smile breaks through the dark. Your pain is where the light enters you. And your kindness is a guiding light for others. And that holds a power that even we fear. Small being, no matter what happens, never let that power go.

OUR TEACHERS CALL ON NADIRA but stare at Anjali. Our teachers tell Michaela to Come to the board and answer number three and make sure you show your work, please, even though they hand the whiteboard marker to Naz. We stand when our names are called, and our teachers halt, confused. Oh, I’m sorry, I— No, not you, I didn’t mean you, I— Across the classroom, we catch each other’s gazes. Nadira is Pakistani and wears a headscarf, which drapes elegantly beneath her neck, except for when she’s playing handball and she knots the fabric, tight, under her chin.

Anjali is Guyanese, and her braid looks like a thick rope that lays heavy against her back, curly baby hairs tamed by coconut oil. Michaela is Haitian and likes to mimic her parents’ French accents on the school bus (Take zee twash out! she says, as we clutch our sides in laughter), and Naz’s family is from the Ivory Coast—I mean, we’re practically cousins, she says to Michaela. Our teachers snap at Sophie to STOP TALKING NOW, but call her Mae’s name. Sophie, who is Filipino, clamps a hand over her big-ass mouth, which is never closed—she loves to gossip and flirt with the boys we call “Spanish”—while Mae, who is Chinese and polite to teachers, at least to their faces, jolts from the bookshelf where she’s stealthily shuffling novels from their alphabetical spots, in order to disrupt our English class two periods later.

NAZ

Nasir,” I say, my voice rough. “My friends call me Naz.

Life is short, Naz, and full of pain. When I die, I don’t want to have any regrets. And not telling you how much I like you would definitely be a regret.

It’ll be simple,” they said. “Just observe and report,” they said. Your first op, Naz, will be a walk in the park.

It’s as if spices are worshipped here, as they mingle and dance and kiss in the air. Some I’ve never even had the privilege of inviting into my soul before.

You're moving in together?" she gasps. "Already?" "Uh, yeah." "Are you ready for all that?" Such a loaded question, one I'm not even sure the answer to. Before I can conjure up a response, Naz chimes in, laying it all out on the table. "I certainly hope she's ready, considering she agreed to marry me.

But her joy was short lived. She dated and lived with Tom for three months. The church appeared to be involved in all aspects of the relationship. She was chaperoned by Tommy and Jessica constantly, who asked Naz to report anything “non-optimum” she observed in Tom so they could help him. “Do you think he is happy?” they would ask her, and Jessica even offered unsolicited advice such as “Why don’t you be more aggressive with Tom and just put your hands down his pants when you see him?” Naz quickly discovered that her “mission” was to make Tom happy, even at the expense of her own happiness.

I realized none would be good enough for my parents. Hell, on most days, I wasn’t good enough for them.

..America feels to me like a factory: you clock in, make your money, gossip with some of your coworkers, and when you’re ready, you clock out. Leave, and never look back. There was no community. No life. (119)

All I want is a cup of water. I feel like I've been crying for so long. There is no moisture left in my entire body. And my skin is flaking away into dust, leaving behind a desert of bones. (280)

without

But perhaps that was the problem with finding someone whose company you enjoy; the world without them feels dulled.

Sometimes I wondered if people used religion as an excuse to ignore the humanity of others, and instead reduce them to their sins.

But I was terrified about having picked up trauma from Mom, from internalizing an unhealthy way to care for my own child.

Love was refuge. Love was comfort. Love was ease.

Rarely,

if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.

But real, meaningful change needs no announcement. Real change speaks for itself.

She appears unfazed. “Naz, we’re Armenian, everything has to do with our parents.

Perhaps this is why we forgive people who don’t deserve it: nostalgia is a hell of a drug. It blurred all the bad, brightened the scant good, and told you pretty lies.

But it’s hard to recognize love and all its forms when you’ve never seen it before. I was so sure that there was only one kind of “real love,” and that real love would be some big dramatic, storybook moment, a sudden flare of passion that would make itself known. What if it wasn’t that at all? What if love was a patient thing that simply stood at your side, offering you a hand? What if it was all the best of friendships—a partnership, a promise to face the unfeeling world and all its follies together? Or simply the quiet, intimate details of a person, like how their lips part when they sleep, how they take their coffee, their preferences in tea?

Maybe they have magic bone rings, kind of like the Nazgul?” says Ollie. “You know, Ringwraiths.” Sitting back, I cross my arms. “How can a ghost wear a ring?” “Er … magic, obviously.” “What are these naz gool you speak of?” asks Marmaduke. “Fictional.” Sam downs his coffee. “We’re dealing with something real.

I walked into the home of my boss’s brother. Juan Carlos was twenty years younger than Naz, but no less powerful. If anything, his youth and convincing portrayal of a family man made him even more dangerous because he was easy to underestimate. He was known to most as El Tigre, and his kill tally rivaled my own. He’d never been my biggest fan, and I daydreamed ways to put him in the ground. Naz figured out early on that it was best if Juan Carlos and I didn’t work together often. Unfortunately, my trip to New York made seeing him a necessity. This was the first time I was meeting him at his home.

Naz knew that Juan Carlos’s dislike for me could lead to him interfering with my efforts, endangering my success. The internal discord in our management was a problem but not my place to fix. Naz needed to keep his brother in check, but instead, he often looked the other way and avoided dealing with his ambitious sibling.

My mother’s memory was the one thing that remained unblemished. Her lie was never meant to hurt me. She could never have known things would end for her the way they had. She was one of those gentle spirits who couldn’t have hurt someone if her life depended on it, and Naz had killed her. She’d been nothing more than collateral damage.

Naz glared at her with oily disdain. “Primo here was supposed to retrieve one of your cousins as leverage. But now, it seems he thinks he makes the decisions around here and has brought you instead.

Sometimes I considered my relationship with Naz in terms of a foster father, but he’d always been more of a boss than a father. Requiring my education and training me were strategic maneuvers rather than guidance from a place of love.

A colossal storm was brewing. If I couldn’t reconcile what I’d learned and continue to see Naz as an ally, our relationship would hit a breaking point, and that could have deadly consequences. Leaving his employment wasn’t an option, and overthrowing him could mean war. I may have been an important part of his organization, but I was by no means the only player. I would have to decide quickly what I could live with and where I had to draw a line. Taking a stand against Naz would be the greatest challenge I’d ever faced, and I wouldn’t dare entertain it without thorough provocation.

NAZ was founded in 2008 in Minneapolis, and is modeled on Geoffrey Canada’s Harlem Children’s Zone. It uses a holistic web of family coaches and tutors, combined with academic and wraparound support, for 1,100 families, to keep 2,300 children in an education pipeline from early childhood to college.

We also recognized that schools can’t do it alone, so we surround students with a team that provides everything from extra academic opportunities, parent education, and early childhood services to behavioral health counseling, housing and career support. In partner schools where the supports are most layered for NAZ students, they are doing significantly better than their peers in reading. Samuels

You went to Greenland...on purpose," Naz said.

He steps over to me and takes the empty bowl from my hand, setting it on the desk. Grasping my chin, he pulls my face up so I'll look at him. His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and he's quiet for a minute before whispering, "Only a fool would be bothered by being with you.

The corner of his lip twitches as his hand drifts lower, down my chest, before he pulls away. "The car's in the garage because I cleaned it out. Like I said, I couldn't sleep." "What was there to clean?" I ask. "Your car is always pristine." "You haven't seen the trunk." I laugh. "What's in the trunk?" "Nothing now." He takes a step

but isn't that the point of hope? faith, even? that you have it and you hold on to it and you protect it, even when it's impossible? isn't that when you need hope the most?

Come dinnertime, we could always rely on the permanent fixture of two pots, standing at attention, prepared for their marching orders.

. . . Baba filled the void the only way he could think of: a faceoff with the two-burner stove, the two pots, and a heaping bag of sabzi--fresh herbs. The permanent lumps lodged in our throats were temporarily soothed by a steaming pot of khoresh ghormeh sabzi--fresh herb stew. The royalty of all Persian stews.

So we improvised and made do, substituting where possible, always with an eye out for the postman and packages from Iran. Packages bursting with dried herbs and spices, well-traveled scents and secrets from home. Envelopes with a few perfunctory words from family (lest officials be monitoring them) and a photograph or two pulled from all the picture albums that were left behind. Substitutes for all the loved ones that were left behind.

Iranians love nothing more than an excuse to gather outdoors, preferably next to a body of water, be it a fountain, river, lake, or sea, with plenty of food, drink, and slices of kookoo--Iranian-style frittatas--nestled in warm pieces of bread.

. . . as much as I missed the warmth of my family left behind in Iran, every inch of my being needed to settle and stay put. . . . Even talk of changing apartments was too much to bear. They say children adapt and adjust to change much easier than adults do. Like a soft ray of light settling on a pool of water, children bend and go with the flow. I was done bending and flowing. I was ready to stake my flag. . . .

I’d like to think if you can’t really afford to have one family, why be so horny as to have another?

No use beating around the bush when the bush is just a bare stump at this point.

Growing up it seemed like all Iranians naturally knew which foods fell into which category, and meals were subconsciously, or at times consciously, due to illness or the weather, designed around this hot and cold concept. Out of respect to the scientists and doctors in our family I will say that none of this is based on hard science, but even the doctors in the family agree that if it brings comfort (like a warm bowl of. . . soup), then that is all the more reason to embrace it.

No matter what, there will always be tahdig. It's who we are. It's where we come from.

Why is your heart hammering, Naz?” “Because you’re crack and I’m an addict.

I love you, Naz,” I blurt, my voice strangled because my throat is closing. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. More than I thought was even possible. I would kill for you. I would die for you. And I swear there’s nothing in this world or out of it that will ever separate me from you again.

More than serendipity, there's providence. God strategically placed us to best serve his plan for us.

ŞİİR ALFABESİ TÜMÜ - 2/3 Hasret A ile başlayan kelime eğer İ harfi ile devam etmezse, cümledeki tüm Ö harflerinin önüne ve arkasına H harfi eklenir. Izdırap A ve U harfleriyle aynı kelimede yer alırsa, sertleşerek kelimenin anlamını güçlendirir. İkimiz Kelimede S harfiyle birlikte kullanılırsa vurguyu M harfine kaydırır. T ve O harflerinin ikisinin birden karşıt anlamlısıdır. Jest Geçmişte çok kullanılan, şu an sadece Y harfinin anlamını güçlendirmek için kullanılan harftir. Kalp A harfinin eski dildeki hali. Laf Kelimede kullanıldığı yere göre anlam kazanır. Az kullanılması makbuldür, çok kullanılırsa I harfiyle aynı manaya gelir. Mutluluk S ve İ harfleriyle aynı kelimede kullanılırsa vurguyu İ harfine kaydırır. Naz Bir kelimede birden çok kez kullanılırsa o kelimede A harfi kullanılamaz. O İ harfinin olumsuz halidir, mutlaka U harfiyle birlikte kullanılır. Ömür S harfiyle birlikte kullanılırsa uzun okunur, I harfiyle birlikte bir kelimede yer alırsa sessizleşir. Papatya Yer aldığı kelimede tüm ünlüleri yumuşatır.

But perhaps that was the problem with finding someone whose company you enjoy; the world without them feels dulled. You become greedy for their presence, even when you’re too afraid to ask for it.

He spoke gently, every word laced with care. With him, I realized, arguments didn’t have to be conflict, didn’t have to be battles to be won. They could be about connecting and reconnecting.