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I hate how love doesn't knock on the door, it just walks in and starts rearranging the furniture of your heart. But that's also what makes it so beautiful, somewhere deep in the wreckage. What you feel for him doesn't sound like a crush of infatuation. It sounds like gravity. Something ancient and inevitable, like the tide returning to shore. / Unknown.
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LYRA SELWYN WAS UNRAVELING, thread by thread. Her life, which was once a carefully woven tapestry, was coming undone.
Perfection had always been second nature to Lyra: her hair neat, outfits flawless and her skin as smooth as porcelain. Even in the face of tragedy, as grief and sorrow hollowed her from the inside out, as her thread was pulled loose, Lyra held the fragments of herself together. She kept her head held high, lips curved into a smile that never quite reached her eyes, and her posture kept straight—elegant like her mother had taught her.
