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For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.

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
Behind
Selves
Second
Rush
Leave
Horizon
Away
Buried
Doll
Self
Ultimately
Horizons
Feel
Sadness
Stored
Feels
Tiny
Vanish
People
Behinds
Dolls

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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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There are more of us than you think.
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And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.
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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.
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Of course. That's what people do in a disordered world, a world of freedom and choice: they leave when they want. They disappear, they come back, they leave again. And you are left to pick up the pieces on your own.
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I love you. They can't take it away.
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Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.
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Some things are better left buried and forgotten.
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Because I think you're right. You can make a difference. He told me experiences were kind of like fate, and fate usually came in the form of a test. He told me fate liked to be worshiped. It liked to see us fall on out knees before it offered to help us up... ♥
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People could push and pull at you, and poke you, and probe as deep as they could go. They could even tear you apart, bit by bit. But at the heart and root and soul of you, something would remain untouched.
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If you take, we will take back. Steal from us, and we will rob you blind. When you squeeze, we will hit. This is the way the world is made now.
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The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.
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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
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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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Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.
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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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It's like high school holds two different worlds, revolving around each other an never touching the haves and the have-nots. I guess it's a good thing. High school is supposed to prepare you for the real world, after all.
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That's all I want. Just you and me. Always.
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This was what being cured was like: like being in a fishbowl, circling always inside the same glass.
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