He shrugged slightly, dropping down so that his head was in her lap, his fingers tapping gently on her stomach. He knew that he hadn’t forced her into anything, but he preferred to think like he had rather than her being willing and possibly even starting the whole thing off. “I don’t think anybody could want another person as much as I want you. I just wish you hadn’t been my student, is all. It would make things a whole lot easier. And we could actually go out and get dinner together instead of having to order it every night.”
Flora smiled softly, blood rushing to her cheeks at his words. Her hand came up and rested on top of his head, softly running through his hair in a loving manner. She shrugged, shaking her head at his words. “I know baby, but— I am, and sometimes I think its alright because if I hadnt I probably wouldve never met you. Besides, no one else is lucky enough to have dinner at their man’s place. and then get to stay the night. Just me.” She’s trying to make him smile, because honestly, she hates it when he gets like this.
so i re calculated everything,
forrest got his first (professional) job at: 19
met andy: 20
andy and forrest dated for six months before andy got pregnant.
6 months + 9 months = 15 meaning forrest was 21 when Ainsley was born.
Andy died when Ainsley was one year old meaning they spent another year together so Forrest was 22.
Ainsley is now five meaning four years have passed since he died meaning that forrest is currently 26.
[breathes heavily] Forrest is turning 27 this year.
Fiona Gallagher - Shameless 2x09
This scene was just beautiful . You felt Fiona’s anguish , pain , and hurt over the abandonment by her mother .
here’s what you tell someone who wants to commit suicide
Here’s what you tell someone who wants to commit suicide: The moment that gunshot goes through your head, you’ll wish you hadn’t done it. When the chair leaves your feet you’ll struggle to get on solid ground again. You tell them they’ve been burning bridges for so long and maybe now it’s time to just find their way across. They can use a cane or a walker or a goddamn police escort, but they’ve got to get over that bridge.
But don’t force them to get over that bridge if they don’t want to. Never push them any further than they want to go. Be gentle, be patient, be kind. Love them. Stay with them and spend time with them and let them cry. And don’t you dare tell them to dry up those tears. Let them fall, and then you give them a list of one-hundred-fifty goddamn reasons why they’re too beautiful for tears. Try to make them believe it; show them how much you care.
Tell them you’ll light one candle for every night they keep themselves alive. Tell them you hope by the end of the year you’ll have a house burning brighter than the molten core of the sun. Take their sadness and give it a good talking-to. Sit it down on the sofa and look it in the eyes, say I want you to give this person their life back. Make it comply. Bind it up with duct tape and tie its hands to the back of the sofa with rope if you have to. Get a confession out of it; play the good cop-bad cop routine if necessary. And you’d better make damn sure that at the end of the day that sadness will be bruised and bloody, broken beyond repair, and not the other way around.
Throw all the plates in the cupboard against the wall. Make this person listen to the sound of them shattering. Tell them you don’t want that to happen to them; make them pick up all the splintered pieces with their bare hands until they get the idea. Even if it takes all night. Then invite this person to dinner at your apartment, and serve them a four-course meal on your best dishes. Let that metaphor, that analogy, rest in their body till it burns their bones. Say, if you don’t kill yourself, then all these plates will be yours. I promise you that.
Take them out to the rooftop of your apartment, and stand as close to the edge as both of you can. Make them close their eyes. Ask them what they feel. And if they feel fear, or loathing at you for making them do this, tighten your grip around their waist and lead them back inside. Look in their eyes and hold their gaze, and tell them this: you were afraid because you still had something left to live for.
Allow them to sleep in. But when they’re just waking up, bleary-eyed and tender, and they want to stay in bed under the warm covers, rip all those covers off. Strip the bed til it’s as naked as their soul, and then say If you kill yourself you’ll sleep forever. Then open all the blinds and let the light in; take their hand and lead them to the window. Look at the beauty out there, you’ll say. Look at the wind and the earth and the flowers in the garden! If you sleep forever you’ll miss all that.
But above all put your ear to their chest and listen to their heartbeat. Then listen to their words, and listen to every single one that pours out of them. I don’t care if it takes hours, or days or weeks or even years. You need to be there and hear what they have to say. And when all those words are gone and they’re left empty and bone-dry, I want you to fill them back up with your love and your willingness to help them heal. Let them know you would walk through fire and swim through floods and journey across barren landscapes for them.
Now here’s what you tell someone who wants to commit suicide, and this will be the simplest word of all, but the most difficult to say: Stay.