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I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs. I'd rather die loving Alex than live without him.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 41
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Alex
Loving
Terms
Term
Dies
Rather
Live
Without
Delirium

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Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us - long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.
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Even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings with something small.
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Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.
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I'm overwhelmed with sadness for everything that was lost, and filled with anger toward the people who took it away. My people-or at least, my old people. I don't know who I am anymore, or where I belong. That's not totally true...I know I belong with Alex.
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The house, the pond, the tree-it was all both overwhelmingly familiar and different from what she remembered-smaller and shabbier, somehow. It was like waking up to find that your reflection in the mirror had aged overnight, or had sprouted a new mole: You were forced to admit that things changed, whether you gave them permission to or not.
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This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.
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For a moment, my heart aches for him. I should never have asked him to join me here I should never have asked him to cross.
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Kent? I say, and my voice seems to have to rise from inside the fog, taking forever to get from my brain to my mouth. Yeah? Promise you'll stay here with me? I say. I promise, he whispers.
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But hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.
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People need other people to feel things for them, she said. It gets lonely to feel things all by yourself.
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Alex is dead, do you hear me? All of that-what we felt, what it meant- that's done now, okay? Buried. Blown away.
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Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.
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He was still in love with you, anyway.
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That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.
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I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again
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