Quote

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.

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
Hate
Forgive
Stills
Forgiving
Still
Painful
Every
Became
Love
Please
Alive
Hope
Understand
Prayed

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Fridays are the hardest in some ways: you’re so close to freedom.
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No wonder the regulators decided on segregation of boys and girls: Otherwise, it would have been a nightmare, this feeling angry and self-conscious and confused and annoyed all the time.
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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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Live free or die.
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Feelings aren't forever. Time waits for no one, but progress waits for man to enact it.
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There is nothing else for people to do. They do not think. They feel no passion, no hatred, no sadness they feel nothing but fear, and a desire to control. So they watch, and poke, and pry.
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Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and runing its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.
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There are more of us than you think.
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Love, the deadliest of all things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don't. But that isn't it, exactly. The condemner and the condemned. The executioner the blade the last-minute reprieve the gasping breath and the rolling sky above you and the thank you, thank you, thank you God. Love: It will kill you and save you, both.
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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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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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When he speaks again, I can tell that he's smiling. So I guess we saved each other.
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The second time my world exploded, it was also because of a word. A word that worked its way out of my throat and danced onto and out of my lips before I could think about it, or stop it. The question was: Will you meet me tomorrow? And the word was: Yes.
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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 first one, we’ll name Blue.
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I didn't realize then what a privilege that was: to be bored with your best friend to have time to waste.
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Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us - long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.
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He was still in love with you, anyway.
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His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams.
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Maybe next time, but probably not.
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