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And for a moment―for a split second―everything else falls away, the whole pattern and order of my life, and a huge joy crests in my chest. I am no one, and I owe nothing to anybody, and my life is my own.

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
Away
Falls
Moments
Patterns
Else
Anybody
Crests
Order
Second
Split
Everything
Joy
Splits
Nothing
Huge
Chest
Whole
Moment
Chests
Life
Fall
Pattern

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He was still in love with you, anyway.
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Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
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Love. I love you. I’ll always love you, my love. You are the love of my life.
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It's amazing how close I have been, all this time, to my old life. And yet the distance that divides me from it is vast.
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Most of us won't see one another after graduation, and even if we do it will be different. We'll be different. We'll be adults--cured, tagged and labeled and paired and identified and placed neatly on our life path, perfectly round marbles set to roll down even, well-defined slopes.
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The old Lena is dead.
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That's my favorite thing about him. I like to lie next to him when it's late, dark, and so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. It's times like that when I'm sure that I'm in love.
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That's when you really lose people, you know.When the pain passes.
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As we're standing there I realize we're almost exactly the same height. We must look like the dark and light side of an Oreo cookie, and I think how just as easily it could have been the other way around. She could be blocking my path I could be trying to slip around her into the dark.
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Love: It will kill you and save you, both
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And it's the funniest thing: as soon as I see it, the whistling in my ears stops and the feeling of terror drains away, and I realize this whole time I haven't been falling at all. I've been floating.
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No guest rooms.” I shake my head resolutely. “I want to be in a room room. A lived-in room.
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It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.
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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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Each step is more difficult than the last the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.
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Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.
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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 don't love you, Lena. Do you hear me? I never love you.
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And how she looked at me like I could save her from everything bad in he world. This was my secret: she was the one who saved me
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And a face above mine, white and beautiful, eyes as large as the moon. You saved me. A hand on my cheek, cool and dry. Why did you save me? Words welling up on a tide: No, the opposite. Eyes the colour of a dawn sky, a crown of blond hair, so bright and white and blinding I could swear it was a halo.
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