This month I broke my own heart, again.

And made a choice that’ll be hard to not regret.

My life is about to change immensely and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to death.

In 2 days, I’ll be moving into my own studio apartment in LA; the same day I will be releasing the first chapter of what will be my first digitally published novel.

I’m sorry to say it’s not the story I mentioned previously; the one I started as a child.

There was something weighing on my mind, on my heart, that made me start an entirely new story.

This I felt compelled to write. Even if it is a basic romance.

There’s been something missing from me these past few months but I’m starting to gain it back.

Call it muse, inspiration, or maybe an increase of estrogen.

But I find myself wanting to buy my own roses and go out to dinner; take candlelit baths and swoon to silk sheets music.

Everything my foolish, romantic heart craves is pouring out through me and into the words of this novel.

Yet it’s still hard to write a love story with a broken heart.

Why, you ask of my heart?

When I was 12 years old, the surgeons fixed what was already broken since I was born.

But as I grew older, I also grew careless, giving away pieces of what they tried so hard to mend.

And now, with the least bit left, I regret letting them waste their time on me as I put the rest of what remains in an envelope and send it across the world.

I want to say from now on this is my journey only, but I can’t think of a time when it never was.

There is a poem I wrote a while back that I stand true to this day;

People come and go, but only I will remain.

It’s hard but I’ll survive.

I always have.

-Natalia

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