The thing is, that world doesn't exist. All growing up means is that your realize no one will come along to fix things. No one will come along to save you.
There are a million rules for being a girl. There are a million things you have to do to get through each day. High school has things that can trip you up, ruin you, people say one thing and mean another, and you have to know all the rules, you have to know what you can and can't do.
Things end. People leave. And you know what? Life goes on. Besides, if bad things didn't happen, how would you be able to feel the good ones?
I didn't want it to be one good memory that led to a lot of bad ones. I wanted it to stay what it was, one amazing moment, something that was strong and sweet enough to stand on its own. Something I could remember without any pain. - Kate
Look at me. We aren´t them lauren. You´re not your mother or father any more than I´m my mother. You´re you and I´m me and I love you.
Please. If you were mostly dead in the middle of the road I'd obviously stop. And then I'd watch you die.Kate to Will
I love books. I like that the moment you open one and sink into it you can escape from the world, into a story that's way more interesting that yours will ever be.
Okay, I guess you can come in.Um, Hannah, you have to, you know, open the front door so I can actually come in.I thought you were going to - you're standing under my window. Aren't you supposed to climb up here or something?My ladder's at home. Also, you call throwing rocks at your window clichéd?
Do you really think he was flirting with me?Let's see. He gave you candy you hate - I saw your face - and a CD of songs... He looks at the CD. All of these are, like, twenty years old at least. Figures. Oh, and he groped your face. Sounds like true love to me.
How come you like Josh so much anyway? All he does is sit around drinking overpriced coffee and bitching about how awful things areHe cares about the world.If he cared about the world, he'd donate the ten thousand dollars he must spend on coffee every year to charity. That would be doing something.
I want to lie down on the bench then, or better yet, on the grass, rest on something living and see if I can hear the dead underneath.
I am the living dead girl because I am too weak to die. I hate those crying dough women on TV because they are just like me, weak and broken and clinging to the hands that hold us under.
I've missed you so much it's felt like missing you is all I am. Like if someone looked inside me, there wouldn't be a skeleton and muscles and blood and nerves. There'd just be memories of you and all the things I've tried to say and ripped out of this notebook, all the things I want to say but can't because I don't have the words.
And that's what makes you angry. What makes you hate. You don't want to believe that sometimes bad things happen just because they do.
I always thought of grief as a blow that took everything out of you. And it is like that. But it stays, past that first hard hit. It stays and blows its breath into you. It's always there, reminding you of what you've lost. What's gone.
I see what grief does, how it strips you bare, shows you all the things you don't want to know. That loss doesn't end, that there isn't a moment where you are done, when you can neatly put it away and move on.
When someone you love...when they die, you want it undone. You'd do anything to have them back, and it's easy to believe that if only this had happened or that had happened, everything would be fine. And that's what makes you angry. What makes you hate. You don't want to believe that sometimes bad things happen just because they do.
I have been smashed and put back together so many times nothing works right. Nothing is where it should be, heavy thumping in my shoulder where my heart now beats.
Wherever I go, I'll always see you. You'll always be with me. And there's no happy ending coming here, no way a story that started on a night that's burned into my heart will end the way I wish it could. You're really gone, no last words, and no matter how many letters I write to you, you're never going to reply. You're never going to say good-bye. So I will. Good-bye, Julia. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being you.
Grace is my favourite church word. A state of being. Something you can pray for. Something God can grant. Something you can obtain. Perfection is out of reach. But grace -- grace you can reach for.
I’m always the one who doesn’t have a date, the one guys walk up to and say, “So, is your friend, you know, with someone?” and I may not be the only girl without someone, but it feels like it sometimes. A lot of the time.
And I know what people say about not listening to insults or how you should let stuff roll off you, but it’s not that easy.
I knew from Brianna that being beautiful wasn’t all great. Brianna had changed in middle school. One day we were both seventh graders and the next, she was a supermodel who had a seventh grader for a best friend.
I thought you were going to— you’re standing under my window. Aren’t you supposed to climb up here or something?”“My ladder’s at home.
...Are you okay? he says, still looking at me, and I feel my smile slip, fade, and the silence that falls over us then is so total I can’t hear anything, not the rush-hiss of my heart pounding in my chest, not the sounds all around us; insects, wind, and the distant clatter of others’ lives in houses built close but not too close because when we look out our windows we all like to pretend that everything we see is ours. But Ryan is not mine.