Random & Rare — Cat Porter

I am that gash in her soul. Once I loved Grace, really loved her. And she loved me, and it was so f***ing beautiful. Once. That pendulum swings to and fro. We're here, and then we're- No. How can that rare beautiful be rendered irrelevant, intangible when I still feel so damn much? Does all that energy, that glory, that significance simply dissolve? Turn to smoke? To nothing? It can't. It just can't. Are the moments that shape us absolutely random? Is time not fluid? I made promises to them, to her. Especially to her. Promises I still burn to keep.