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Love always hurts. That’s one thing I know you know. But it’s worth it. That’s what you don’t know. Yet.

Sarah Addison Allen

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Sarah Addison Allen
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: March 30
Author
Asheville
North Carolina
Katie Gallagher
Love
Hurts
Worth
Hurt
Thing
Always

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Being left makes you doubt your ability to keep people, even friends.
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Girls like us, when we love, it takes everything we have.
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That, they knew, was true friendship. And they knew, if you're lucky enough to find it, you hold on to it.
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To think, after all this time, after all the searching and all the waiting, after all the regret and the time she'd spent away, she came back to find that happiness was right where she's left it. On a football field in Mullaby, North Carolina. Waiting for her.
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Like magic, she felt him getting nearer, felt it like a pull in the pit of her stomach. It felt like hunger but deeper, heavier. Like the best kind of expectation. Ice cream expectation. Chocolate expectation.
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She sometimes thought she was going crazy. Her first thought when she woke up was always how to get him out of her thoughts. And she would keep watch, hoping to see him next door, while plotting ways to never have to see him again.
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To Fred, those years seemed to pass like quickly skimming a book and then finding the ending wasn't what he expected. He wished he'd paid more attention to the story.
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We're connected, as women. It's like a spiderweb. If one part of that web vibrates, if there's trouble, we all know it, but most of the time we're just too scared, or selfish, or insecure to help. But if we don't help each other, who will?
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Adolescence is like having only enough light to see the step directly in front of you.
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Everything had felt so precarious since her mother's death, like she was walking on a bridge made of paper.
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He was the only person in the world she was tongue-tied around, and yet the only person she really wanted to talk to.
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When you're happy for yourself, it fills you. When you're happy for someone else, it pours over.
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She was so Southern that she cried tears that came straight from the Mississippi, and she always smelled faintly of cottonwood and peaches.
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He used to believe good things happened in this kind of weather.
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Men. You can't live with them, you can't shoot them.
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I'll give you one day at a time, Claire. But remember, I'm thousands of days ahead already.
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Because he knew the best way to get what he wanted was to break down what made us strongest. And our friendships were what made us strong.
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Don't let anyone see your vulnerable spots. Once they knew how to hurt you, they would do it again and again.
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Watching them, she realized they made so much sense together. Every look, every touch, was a reassurance, almost electric, as if they were shocking each other with every contact.
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Don't you wish you could take a single childhood memory and blow it up into a bubble and live inside it forever?
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