B.K. Borison

'Trying to be happy?'
'No.' He shakes his head once. 'That doesn’t work. Trying to be happy is like—it’s like telling a flower to bloom.' He crosses his ankles and drags his palm against his stubble. 'You can’t make yourself be happy. But you can be open to it. You can trust yourself enough to feel it when you stumble on it.'
[…]
Some of it comes, some of it goes. It’s about the trying. Settling into the happy when you find it, being okay when you don’t. Feeling all the misshapen bits and pieces and where they fit together. The delightful, ordinary blank space in between.

'Why are you giving these guys your time? Why are you settling for crumbs when you deserve the whole damn cake?'

It’s hard to love someone without restraint. To give yourself over to the swell and pull of it without fear of what might happen. I think it’s only natural to hold a part of yourself back and protect what you can.
[…]
But it’s hard to keep yourself from giving in too.