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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.

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
Course
Disordered
Choices
Disappear
Freedom
Pick
Left
Picks
Back
Choice
Come
Pieces
World
Leave
People
Courses

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Maybe before you die, it's your ghosts you see.
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And in that moment, the wordless thing passed between us, the thing that wasn't quite love but was so close I could believe in it sometimes.
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Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.
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But this isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen, or imagined, or even dreamed: This is like music or dancing but better than both.
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Fred is officially the mayor of Portland now.
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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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Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.
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Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.
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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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So far I've seen the life studies packet used as (1) an umbrella, (2) a makeshift towel, (3) a pillow, and now this. I have never actually seen anyone study with it, which either means that everyone who graduates from Thomas Jefferson will be totally unprepared for life or that certain things can't be learned in bullet-point format.
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I start to back away before I do something wildly inappropriate, like jump on top of him.
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Why couldn't you let me have it? Why did you have to take it? Why did you always take everything?
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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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I love you. They can't take it away.
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Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.
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Then I think of the dark, and the lights, and the roaring, and Juliet, and before I can think of anything else, I fight the final few steps to the door and step out into the cold, where the rain is still coming down like shards of moonlight, or like steel.
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The thing is, you don't get to know. It's not like you wake up with a bad feeling in your stomach. You don't see shadows where there shouldn't be any. You don't remember to tell your parents you love them or--in my case--remember to say good-bye to them at all.
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Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge. That's what it is: an edge a razor. It draws up through the center of your life, cutting everything in two. Before and after. The rest of the world falls away on either side.
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But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.
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I guess there are some things you never get used to.
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