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In one of the tents, Julian is sleeping. And in another: Alex

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
Julian
Tents
Alex
Sleeping
Sleep
Another

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...and once at Hana's house, when we stole some blackberry liqueur from her parents' liquor cabinet and drank until the ceiling started spinning overhead. Hana was laughing and giggling, but I didn't like it, didn't like the sweet sick taste in my mouth or the way my thoughts seemed to break apart like a mist in the sun.
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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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I’m with Julian,” I say at last. This, after all, is what I have chosen.
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I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?
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I've been so used to thinking of what the borders are keeping out that I haven't considered that they're also penning us in.
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Don't worry about what you're writing or whether it's good or even whether it makes sense.
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That's the beauty of the cure. No one mentions those lost, hot days in the field, when Thomas kissed Rachel's tears away and invented worlds just so he could promise them to her, when she tore the skin off her own arm at the thought of living 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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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.
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It's the way he says my name: like music.
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Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.
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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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Kent? I say, and my voice seems to have to rise from inside the fog, taking forever to get from my brain to my mouth. Yeah? Promise you'll stay here with me? I say. I promise, he whispers.
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