Things end. People leave. And you know what? Life goes on. Besides, if bad things didn't happen, how would you be able to feel the good ones?
The world will knock you down plenty. You don't need to be doing it to yourself.
The truth is, I feel beyond sad. I feel empty. Numb.
Things change. Stuff happens. Life goes on.
You tell yourself that you aren't something or that you can't be something, and you know what? It will become true. You have to decide who you are and what you can do and then go after what you want. Because believe me, no one is going to give it to you.
Why do people think being with someone is the answer to everything?
I love books. I like that the moment you open one and sink into it you can escape from the world, into a story that's way more interesting that yours will ever be.
And what if---what are you if the people who are supposed to love you can leave you like you're nothing?
I see what grief does, how it strips you bare, shows you all the things you don't want to know. That loss doesn't end, that there isn't a moment where you are done, when you can neatly put it away and move on.
I do not fall. I fell so hard so long ago there is nothing left for me to land on. I just keep falling and falling and falling.
I want to care, but I don’t. I look at you and all I feel is tired.
I wish it had never happened because then I wouldn't think about it as I'm falling asleep.
The thing about hearts is that they always want to keep beating
Imagine a guy. He’s a little taller than you, with perfect skin, skin that just screams “touch me!” and dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes and he looks so sweet and he is sweet. And then have him blush a little.
Things... well, things suck sometimes. And sometimes you can fix it. And sometimes you can't. It's just the way it is.
love is...you get confused and you do stuff you don't mean to do-and you just-you hate yourself and sometimes you don't even want to love the person you do because it would be so much easier if you didn't.But you just-you just do.
I heard how people sounded when their dreams were shattered, when their lives were turned into a waking nightmare.
The story of my life can be told in silver: in chocolate mills, serving spoons, and services for twelve. The story of my life has nothing to do with me. The story of my life is things. Things that aren’t mine, that won’t ever be mine. It’s all I’ve ever known. I wish it wasn’t.
I think the way I feel when I look at Evan comes from her. In pictures taken the day she married my dad, she was reckless, laughing, spinning around in circles. She looked like her whole world was him. She looked a kind of happy I can't even imagine. I don't want that. I don't want to be like that. I don' want to feel the way she did because I know what happens when you do. You love with your whole heart, with everything, and you wake up one morning and kiss someone good-bye the way you always do except you mean it as good-bye forever.
I want to care, but I don't. I look at you and all I feel is tired. I walk through school and all I want to do is leave. I wake up in the morning and don't know why I'm here. I feel like I'm not real.
Okay, I guess you can come in." "Um, Hannah, you have to, you know, open the front door so I can actually come in." "I thought you were going to - you're standing under my window. Aren't you supposed to climb up here or something?" "My ladder's at home. Also, you call throwing rocks at your window clichéd?
My mother taught me to believe in silver, to believe in things, but I think it's more important to believe in me.
Are you reading?" I say. It's not that I don't think Finn can read or anything, but it's just - well, not what I expected to see. I figured Finn spent his time doing whatever it is guys who aren't Josh do when they aren't in school. Burping, or something. "Try not to look so surprised," Finn says. "I read. I can count to ten. Sometimes I can even spell my own name.
I want to lie down on the bench then, or better yet, on the grass, rest on something living and see if I can hear the dead underneath.
My name is Danielle. I'm eighteen. I've been stealing things for as long as I can remember
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