I loved Alex so much that it was easier to let him hurt me than to watch him hurt himself.
It still hurts," she whispered. "Even when you're doing it for someone else, that doesn't stop your ribs from getting cracked, or your wrist swelling, or your cuts from bleeding.
There was, really, nothing you could use as a blueprint for your life, except your past. There was no starting over. There was only picking up the pieces someone had left behind.
I've always been able to see you," I say. "It's a rather lovely view.
You keep distracting me,” I tell her. “All I’m doing is sitting here talking to you!” “Exactly,” I say, and I smile at her.j
[Jules] slides into a seat beside me with her hot lunch tray, sighing. “Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds till we’re out of purgatory for the weekend.” “Maybe later,” I murmur, still distracted by the day’s previous events. “So, let me show you how a conversation works. I say something, and then you say something back that actually relates to what I was talking about, as if you were even the least bit interested.” “Huh?” I say.
People in the real world would kill for a happily ever after, and you're willing to just throw it away ?" I look away from her. "It's hardly a happily ever after when you wind up right at the beginning.
You have to understand what you’re missing before you can really feel a loss.
I think there are crossroads in our lives when we make grand, sweeping decisions without even realizing it.
You don't make a friend," Jacob said with a scowl. "It's not like they come with directions like you'd find on a box of macaroni and cheese.
The problem was , you never heard anyone say,"wow, check out the brain on that babe.
And just like that, something inside shifted very subtly, so that all the empty spaces in him suddenly disappeared, so that his breath timed to hers, so that his blood sang. This is why there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that just didn’t have words big enough to describe them.
Talking out loud to fictional characters is just the tip of the iceberg.
Maybe the reason I've never died in this story is that I've never had something worth dying for before.
Who spit in your porridge?
She's not like anyone I've ever seen before. When I'm not with her, I want to be. And when she opens the book and I see her face, I can barely remember what I'm supposed to say, much less how to speak at all." I test the words on my tongue. "I think I might be in love with her. But how can I really know, since the only love I've ever experienced was written for me?
There are some nights when you just want to know there's someone else besides you in this wide world.
History isn't about dates and places and wars. It's about the people who fill the spaces between them.
My grandmother told me that her father used to ask her a riddle: What must you break apart in order to bring a family close together? Bread, of course.
What is the point of trying to put down on paper emotions that are too complex, too huge, too overwhelming to be confined by an alphabet? Love isn't the only word that fails. Hate does, too.
There are all sorts of losses people suffer - from the small to the large. You can lose your keys, your glasses, your virginity. You can lose your head, you can lose your heart, you can lose your mind. You can relinquish your home to move into assisted living, or have a child move overseas, or see a spouse vanish into dementia. Loss is more than just death, and grief is the gray shape-shifter of emotion.
My brother believed in all sorts of mythical creatures: pixies, dragons, werewolves, honest men.
Whether it was power they sought, or revenge, or love-well, those were all just different forms of hunger. The bigger the hole inside you, the more desperate you became to fill it.
Don't pay back in kind, pay back in kindness. If someone does wrong by you, do right by them.
The doctors may be mapping out the war games, but it is the nurses who make the conflict bearable.
"Everyone still deserves to have their say."
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