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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.

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
Sure
Lying
Times
Heartbeat
Next
Favorite
Thing
Quiet
Love
Late
Like
Hear
Dark

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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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I start to follow her, and Alex grabs my hand. I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again. I don't trust myself to speak. Instead I nod, hoping that he understands me. He squeezes my hand. Go, he says.
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Everything in me feels fluttering and free, like I could take off from the ground at any second. Music, I think, he makes me feel like music.
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And then, just at that moment, when I'm no longer sure if I'm dreaming or awake or walking some valley in between where everything you wish for comes true, I feel the flutter of his lips on mine.
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I hate both of my parents right now: for sitting quietly in our house, while out in the darkness my heart was beating away all of the seconds of my life, ticking them off one by one until my time was up for letting the thread between us stretch so far and so thin that the moment it was severed for good they didn't even feel it.
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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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Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.
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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's the thing: We didn't really care. A world without love is also a world without stakes.
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You should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back.
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It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.
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Feelings aren't forever. Time waits for no one, but progress waits for man to enact it.
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There is no before. There is only now, and what comes next.
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Once Mo had closed the gates, he returned to his little stone hut, and his half-eaten sandwich of butter and canned sardines, and his mug of thick hot chocolate, which every night he poured carefully into a thermos labeled COFFEE.
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