I’m not expecting anything too dramatic. There will be no impassioned speeches, no falling into arms, no long, seminal kisses in the hallway while the gathered students cheer. But maybe seeing me will remind her that there was something nice about what we were just starting to have, something easy and real, and seeing her will fill me with the fortitude to try to see her again. Maybe we’ll exchange a look, or a laugh, something that will cause the ground beneath us to shift just enough to make me feel okay about leaving her a message the next time I go to the movies alone. And maybe something in my eyes, or in my voice, will let her know that it would be okay for her to come, that I’m a better bet now than I was then. At this point in my life, I’m not looking for any happy endings. I’m just looking to get things started.
I heard what you said. I’m not the silly romantic you think. I don’t want the heavens or the shooting stars. I don’t want gemstones or gold. I have those things already. I want a steady hand. A kind soul. I want to fall asleep, and wake, knowing my heart is safe. I want to love, and be loved.
The tide was beginning to crawl in again: unpredictable tide that rose now and then from somewhere beyond the farthest point of ebb and swung them off the treacherous flats they stood on. She felt it start to lift her, stinging and cleansing the raw abscess in her breast. Hold on, she told herself, soon we shall be afloat, we shall have drawn one another in.
This isn’t the real me, yet it is. There’s different versions of me, and they’re all the real me. And you know what? That kills me. It’s too confusing. I’m not one person. I’ve got a twenty-something body, eight-year old heart, eighteen-year old mind, and eighty-year old soul.
Sleep tries to seduce me by promising a more reasonable tomorrow.
- Elizabeth Smart, By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept (via larmoyante)
You forget everything. The hours slip by. You travel in your chair through centuries you seem seem to see before you, your thoughts are caught up in the story, dallying with the details or following the course of the plot, you enter into characters, so that it seems as if it were your own heart beating beneath their costumes.
He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
- Markus Zusak, The Book Thief (via larmoyante)