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I’m sorry for everything.” Then he turns and pushes back into the woods, and he’s gone.

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
Back
Everything
Pushes
Woods
Sorry
Gone
Turns

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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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We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
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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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We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.
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There's a place for everything and everyone, you know. That is the mistake they make above. They think that only certain people have a place. Only certain kinds of people belong. The rest is waste. But even waste must have a place. Otherwise it will clog and clot, and rot and fester.
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He looked at me like I was beautiful.
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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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that's what it was like waking up in the crypts. no-longer-dead. but without her. like burning alive.
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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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i feel like a curtain has dropped away and i'm seeing people for who they really are, different, and sharp, and unknowable.
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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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I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.
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I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again
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Please understand. Please forgive me. I prayed every day for you to be alive, until hope became painful. Don't hate me. I still love you.
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They didn’t get me, I should have said. They saved me.
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I'm not ugly but I'm not pretty either. Everything is in-between. I have eyes that aren't green or brown, but a muddle. I'm not thin but I'm not fat either. the only thing you could definitely say about me is that: I'm short
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A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.
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It's an incredible thing, how you can feel so taken care of by someone and yet feel, also, like you would die or do anything just for the chance to protect him back.
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Everyone just wasting time because they have so much of it to waste, minutes slipping by on who's with who and did you hear.
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