för alla gånger som vi dansat, och sjungit med fast ingen kan.




“He is not to them what he is to me,” I thought: “he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;—I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him … I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered:—and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.”

- Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre



I feel at the end, without giving too much away, it’s not an ending, it’s a beginning of sorts. At the same time, it’s gray. In a way, they’ll never be able to shake each other off for the rest of their lives. They’ll always be a part of each other, no matter what they do or who they get with, whether they’re with each other or not. That sort of frames that feeling of helplessness, of not understanding fully what it is, which is sort of the most heartbreaking thing.

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