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No guest rooms.” I shake my head resolutely. “I want to be in a room room. A lived-in room.

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
Shake
Guests
Shakes
Lived
Room
Rooms
Head
Resolutely
Guest

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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.
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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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I'm overwhelmed with sadness for everything that was lost, and filled with anger toward the people who took it away. My people-or at least, my old people. I don't know who I am anymore, or where I belong. That's not totally true...I know I belong with Alex.
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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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There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.
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You came form different starts and you'll come to different ends.
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i suppose that's the secret, if you're ever wishing for things to back the way they were. You just have to look up.
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Love: It will kill you and save you, both
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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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Live free or die.
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You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.
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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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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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The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.
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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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We are always being pushed and squeezed down one road or another. We have no choice but to step forward, and then step forward again, and then step forward again suddenly we find ourselves on a road we haven't chosen at all.
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They didn’t get me, I should have said. They saved me.
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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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Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.
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And you should hear the music. Incredible, amazing music, like nothing you've ever heard, music that almost takes your head off, you know? That makes you want to scream and jump up and down and break stuff and cry.
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