Tara Tainton - It Can Happen So Fast When Its Y... Page
Let it happen fast. Let it be yours. Because some things—real things—don’t arrive on a schedule. They arrive like a storm after drought, like a word you’ve been trying to remember your whole life.
And suddenly, you are crying in a parking lot. Or laughing until your ribs ache in a kitchen at 2 a.m. Or sending a text you delete three times before hitting send, because vulnerability still feels like a foreign language you’re desperate to speak. Tara Tainton - It Can Happen So Fast When Its Y...
So when it happens—when it’s really yours—don’t apologize for the speed. Don’t apologize for the hunger, the urgency, the way your heart gallops ahead of your logic. That’s not desperation. That’s the sound of a locked room opening from the inside. Let it happen fast
You were never afraid of losing it. You were afraid of finally having something worth losing. They arrive like a storm after drought, like
Not borrowed love. Not performative passion. Not the kind of affection you have to earn with silence or shape-shifting. But yours —the kind that sees your chaos and doesn’t demand you organize it. The kind that stays in the room when you fall apart, not because it has to, but because it recognizes itself in your fragments.
And the answer will be quiet, simple, devastating:
Waiting for you to stop pretending you didn’t need this.
Let it happen fast. Let it be yours. Because some things—real things—don’t arrive on a schedule. They arrive like a storm after drought, like a word you’ve been trying to remember your whole life.
And suddenly, you are crying in a parking lot. Or laughing until your ribs ache in a kitchen at 2 a.m. Or sending a text you delete three times before hitting send, because vulnerability still feels like a foreign language you’re desperate to speak.
So when it happens—when it’s really yours—don’t apologize for the speed. Don’t apologize for the hunger, the urgency, the way your heart gallops ahead of your logic. That’s not desperation. That’s the sound of a locked room opening from the inside.
You were never afraid of losing it. You were afraid of finally having something worth losing.
Not borrowed love. Not performative passion. Not the kind of affection you have to earn with silence or shape-shifting. But yours —the kind that sees your chaos and doesn’t demand you organize it. The kind that stays in the room when you fall apart, not because it has to, but because it recognizes itself in your fragments.
And the answer will be quiet, simple, devastating:
Waiting for you to stop pretending you didn’t need this.