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But maybe happiness isn't in the choosing. Maybe it's in the fiction, in the pretending: that wherever we have ended up is where we intended to be all along.

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
Maybe
Requiem
Happiness
Choosing
Intended
Pretending
Ended
Wherever
Along
Fiction

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I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them 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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That's the thing: We didn't really care. A world without love is also a world without stakes.
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Some things are better left buried and forgotten.
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Funny how certain things stay with you.
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I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.
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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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anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
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That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.
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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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The kidnapping, the kiss. I brought him here, after all. I rescue him an pulled him into this new life, a life of freedom and feeling.
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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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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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It was unfair that people could pretend to be one thing when they were really something else. That they would get you on their side and then do nothing but fail, and fail, and fail again. People should come with warnings, like cigarette packs: involvement would kill you over time.
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No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.
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Something must die so that others can live.
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The first time I saw you, at the Governor, I handn't been to watch the birds at the border in years. But that's what you reminded me of. You were jumping up, and you were yelling something, and your hair was coming loose from your ponytail, and you were so fast... He shakes his head. Just a flash, and then you were gone, Exactly like a bird.
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It's too late. I've seen things...I've lost things you can't understand.
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Perhaps this was how the sparrows did it too perhaps they were looking so hard at the peaks and tips of the new rooftops coated with dew, and the vast new horizon, that they only forgot that they did not know how to fly until they were already in midair.
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Nothing exists but him.
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