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She's been conned, ruined, left for dead, and she's not going to forgive any of it. She will soldier on, if only out of spite.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Dead
Left
Going
Conned
Ruined
Forgive
Spite
Soldier
Forgiving

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I should not have loved my daughter as I did. Not in this world in which nothing lives for long. You children are flies. You are roses. You multiply and die.
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Good night, sweetheart, he says. Good bye, sweetheart, I say. And it's so casual, so innocent that he doesn't suspect a thing.
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Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.
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I never wanted to live forever, she says. I just wanted enough time.
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I was born into a world that was already dying I belong to it.
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You can try to please everyone and risk accomplishing nothing, or go for your dreams and risk pissing a few people off.
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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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Dystopian, by definition, promises a darker story.
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Love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
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and I've always known it, the way I love a song I hear for the first time, even before I know all the words, the way I love my favorite color, and the way that the train would speed past my bedroom when it was very quiet and I'd feel it in my stomach rushing through me. I love you in a way that I've never felt needed to be said.
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It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.
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We writers are resilient souls.
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He sits next to me, careful to avoid my hair that's splayed out around my head like blood. A bullet to the forehead, boom, blond waves everywhere.
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Even things that aren't broken can be fixed.
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So many of the things I've wanted are the things I've been taught to fear.
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The seeds are tiny, unborn things, and I resent them. They'll be planted and they'll grow into exactly what they're meant to be.
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Life is much different from the days when there were lilies in my mother’s garden, and all my secrets fit into a paper cup.
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A strange thing, words. Once they're said, it's hard to imagine they're untrue.
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Someday I'll tell you all of it, I say. I'd like that, he says. No, I say. I promise you won't.
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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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