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I close my eyes. An image flashes—emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.
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
Would
Instead
Grown
Life
Cities
Escape
Julian
Worst
Image
Flashes
Eyes
York
Escaped
Eye
Harder
Vans
Moment
Begin
Emerging
Moments
City
Flash
Believe
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Believing
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I don't love you, Lena. Do you hear me? I never love you.
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Nothing exists but him.
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He was still in love with you, anyway.
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Funny how certain things stay with you.
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This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.
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My parents were pretty liberal, but they were still parents. I definitely had my teenage rebellion.
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You see, we didn't know.
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It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.
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But that's the problem with love - it acts on you, works through you, resists your attempts to control.
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That’s just the kind of thing that kids do to each other. It’s no big deal. There’s always going to be a person laughing and somebody getting laughed at. It happens every day, in every school, in every town in America—probably in the world, for all I know. The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.
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There are more of us than you think.
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This is what I want. This is the only thing I've ever wanted. Everything else—every single second of every single day that has come before this very moment, this kiss—has meant nothing.
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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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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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A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.
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It's like a razor blade edging its way through my organs, shredding me, all I can think is: It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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Direction, like time, is a general thing, the deprived of boundaries and borders. It is an endless process interception and reinterception, doubling back and adjusting.
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Alex is dead, do you hear me? All of that-what we felt, what it meant- that's done now, okay? Buried. Blown away.
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It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.
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