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And when we are with Alex, I might as well not be there. They speak in a language of whispers and giggles and secrets their words are like a fairy-tale tangle of thorns, which place a wall between us.

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
Speak
Tale
Place
Secrets
Wells
Fairy
Giggles
Might
Tales
Tangle
Well
Wall
Giggle
Like
Secret
Whispers
Words
Alex
Language
Thorns

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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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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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When we get out of highschool we'll look back and know we did everything right, that we kissed the cutest boys and went to the best parties, got in just enough trouble, listened to our music too loud, smoked too many cigarettes, and drank too much and laughed too much and listened too little, or not al all.
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I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.
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That's all I want. Just you and me. Always.
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If you cross a line and nothing happens, the line loses meaning.
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Lies are just stories, and stories are all that matter. We all tell stories. Some are more truthful than others, maybe, but in the end the only thing that counts is what you can make people believe.
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Maybe next time, but probably not.
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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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I know that the whole point—the only point—is to find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.
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Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.
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There's still always the possibility that I've gone totally, clinically cuckoo. But somehow I don't think so anymore. An article I once read said that crazy people don't worry about being crazy - that's the whole problem.
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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.
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It was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red means run.
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Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.
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And in that moment, the wordless thing passed between us, the thing that wasn't quite love but was so close I could believe in it sometimes.
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I don't love you, Lena. Do you hear me? I never love you.
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Be honest: Are you surprised that I didn't realize sooner? Are you surprised that it took me so long to even /think/ the word -- death? Dying? Dead? Do you think I was being stupid? Naive? Try not to judge. Remember that we're the same, you and me. I thought I would live forever too.
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I have had to give up so much, so many selves and lives already. I have grown up and out of the rubble of my old lives, of things and people I have cared for.
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