Posted in Conversations



She: I won’t fit anywhere.

He: Why so?

She: I am like a weird rock. A rock that has been cut by time and emotions in such a shape that it won’t fit anywhere.

He: *thinks for a bit* But I’ll manage you.

She: You won’t be able to cut yourself according to me.

He: Ah, I won’t do that, I’ll be the clay. I’ll mold.