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I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds they repair the broken skin.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 42
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Broken
Pandemonium
Wonder
Repair
Always
Intimacy
People
Wounds
Heal
Skin
Skins
Close

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This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
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Grief is like sinking, like being buried.
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I’ve never really had a party before.” “Why did you have one now?” I say, just to keep him talking. He gives a half laugh. “I thought if I had a party, you would come.
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When he speaks again, I can tell that he's smiling. So I guess we saved each other.
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No wonder the regulators decided on segregation of boys and girls: Otherwise, it would have been a nightmare, this feeling angry and self-conscious and confused and annoyed all the time.
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The salt blowing off the sea makes the air feel textured and heavy.
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Funny how certain things stay with you.
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That's the thing: We didn't really care. A world without love is also a world without stakes.
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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex
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I cry for everything I abandoned and because I, too, have been left behind -- by Alex, by my mom, by time that has cut through our worlds and separated us.
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Love, the deadliest of all things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don't. But that isn't it, exactly. The condemner and the condemned. The executioner the blade the last-minute reprieve the gasping breath and the rolling sky above you and the thank you, thank you, thank you God. Love: It will kill you and save you, both.
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Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.
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There's a place for everything and everyone, you know. That is the mistake they make above. They think that only certain people have a place. Only certain kinds of people belong. The rest is waste. But even waste must have a place. Otherwise it will clog and clot, and rot and fester.
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Popularity's a weird thing. You can't really define it, and it's not cool to talk about, but you know it when you see it. Like a lazy eye, or porn.
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That is the rule of the Wilds: You must be bigger and stronger and tougher. You must hurt or be hurt.
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I need to live my life in the light of their deaths. I need to live.
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Something must die so that others can live.
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I will make a pact with you: I will do it if you will do it, always and forever. Take down the walls.
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Most of the time one night blends into the next and weeks blend into weeks and months into other months. And sooner or later we all die. But at the beginning of the night anything’s possible.
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The idea—the fact of it, the fact that he even noticed and thought about me for more than one second—is huge and overwhelming, makes my legs go tingly and my hands feel numb.
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