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Don't you miss it? I say. Being free. He laughs.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Miss
Missing
Laughing
Free
Laughs

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There’s a limit to how much living can be done in a life without freedom.
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I figured it out eventually, she says. She's sitting on the edge of the gurney again her features slowly materialize as my vision clears. It's momentum. What? I whisper. The feeling returning to my lips, spreading out to my fingertips and toes. Momentum, she repeats. You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have
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I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.
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I used to have only one name it used to mean something.
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I never wanted to live forever, she says. I just wanted enough time.
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who once had dreams of saving the world, now laughs at anyone who tries.
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You can't be afraid. You can be sad if you like. You can be angry. But it's the fear that'll freeze you in place.
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Ah, love. That’s what the world has lost. There’s no more love, only the illusion of it.
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What have you done? What have you given up?' So many things, Cecily. More than you know.
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We are stronger than we've credited ourselves to be. We have been the victims and the witnesses. We have said a lifetime of good-byes.
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Real’ is a dirty word in this place.
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I miss something I never even had.
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It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.
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Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.
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Bet you never eat, he says. Bet you drink up the oxygen like it's butter. Bet you can go for days on nothing but thoughts.
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Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.
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I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?
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There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.
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Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
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Eventually I realize that I am holding on to him just as tightly as he holds on to me. And here we are: two small dying things, as the world ends around us like falling autumn leaves.
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