A/N: I'm all caught up on Suits, and man, if this season wasn't heartbreaking. Here's more Season 4 finale angst.
"Pain is the measure of love." You wrote it in a notebook at sixteen, in reckless, curving script, because you were going to be an actress and you were going to say that sort of things in interviews.
Funny, how it's followed you. Something like it is one of Harvey's sayings, isn't it? Press until it hurts?
You've been pressed—you all have, up against walls that close in too quickly, to ends and means and ways that almost break your heart.
And in the end, someday, most of you or all of you will gather up a little box of your things and take the elevator down, and never up again.
You certainly will. You let yourself care too much, and it can't last forever, no matter how much you want it to.
You're not taking your box downstairs, not yet. You're taking it to Louis, and it feels like goodbye.
Nothing ever really hurts until you let yourself love it.
And you don't ever know how much you love it, until it's gone.
You think of that line you scribbled on a notebook, when you were feeling dramatic and you didn't know anything at all.
But you're leaving behind the love of your life and the life of your love, with all his stupid bravado and his smile and the suit of armor he wears every day of his life—
And you were right, when you wrote that. You were right, and you know everything now, except how to make it stop hurting.
Because pain is the measure of love.
