Perfect Disasters.

Some days are just perfect disasters.

Those days are filled with rain-soaked boots pounding on city streets, running away from everything we know to nowhere in particular. Those days feel like messy buns and photo shoots, backstreet coffee shops, and faces that are so full of laughter they’re sure to be the source of wrinkles decades from now.

“It’ll be okay,” we gasp between sobs from broken zippers and sprained ankles. When the wind whips our hair, we’re so enraptured looking at city lights that we don’t even notice. The freezing air smells like salt and the freedom we’ve dreamed of since we could walk.

We laugh and we cry and we remember, because moments like this will always be etched into our minds, shaping who we are and reinforcing who we can lean on when times aren’t this good. We remember why we’re alive and why we fight as passionately as we do. I won’t forget and I can’t forget you and this city and this night.

Thank you for being my perfect disaster.


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