You had me when you mentioned a LaTeX editor that isn't overleaf bullshit, is it good?

But now it's okay to cry.
It hurts, and it will keep hurting.
But maybe tomorrow hurts a bit less.

You will keep dancing the fine line, with the practicated moves of a ballerina.
For your own sake, as fear has no place in your heart.
For your loved ones sake, for their arms are tired from holding you in your many pitfalls.

Because being afraid is tiring isn't it?
You were afraid so much time, time that has faded into oblivion and you'll never get back.
And you won't let more sand of the hourglass slip between your fingers.

And tomorrow will come, and the sun will rise, as every morning entails.
You will forgive, forget and learn.
You will fix yourself, as always, putting the pieces back together even if the cracks will linger for some time.
And eventually you will slip again, because you are bound to do so.

And your halo remains sundered.
Broken.
Shattered.
It hurt. Unlike anything that had hurt before.
You didn't want it to be this way, but the line was too fine to walk, the edge of the knife too sharp to rest upon.
You were bound to slip sometime.

The pain sears and coils around you, snaking across that pale skin like rivers of red.
The warmth of their touch also weaves upon your flesh, knotting with the pain like a finely woven cloth.
Every inch of you feels in bliss or broken, no in-between.