I was in love once - completely, totally, madly, *throw in couple of violins* in love. I thought that that was the only thing that mattered and every time after he hurt me and broke my heart - I would go back. Why? Because I loved him. And because I thought that was it, that I would never be able to love again. How it ended? Bloody. Deep down inside of me, I still love him, but something snapped inside of me, or maybe he just broke my heart so many times there was nothing left to break. Breaking the habit of going back to him, was akin to breaking the addiction. For months I went to sleep sobbing and crying, only to dream of him. But break it I did. Your eyes dry out, you go numb to all the love songs, ice cream sickens you - and then, for the first time in a long time, you notice the sun is shining. And you start looking again, even if you are telling yourself that you are not, you start to hope again. And then one day, you meet someone - someone patient, someone who kisses your scars, someone who isn't afraid of the whole person you are - and you surprise yourself, not just by your ability to love again, to trust again, but for having thought that that was love at all.