Stories let us see and hear and feel what someone else does,” she explained. “They build bridges to the other islands. That’s why stories are so important. They create true empathy.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and then I kiss him. Not so gently this time. His hand drops from my face and grab at my waist and pull me to him. A small soft groan escapes him, and that noise makes me absolutely crazy. I lose it. I wind my hands around his neck and kiss him without holding anything back. I can feel his heart thundering like mine, his breath coming faster, his arms tightening around me.
Everybody dies, and everybody loses people they love.
The people we love are never truly gone.
Edward couldn’t imagine his cousin Jane with a husband and a child, even though she was sixteen years old and sixteen was a bit spinsterish, by the standards of the day.
Insert the biggest, most awkward silence in the history of big awkward silences. I stare at him. I’m suddenly exhausted by all the lies I’ve told him. He’s my friend, and I lie to him every day. He deserves better. I wish I could tell him then, more than anything I’ve ever wanted. I wish I could stand in front of him and truly be myself and tell him everything. But it’s against the rules.
Without stories, we’re all just lonely islands.
I understand now that nobody could have saved Ty but Ty. There’s no one else to blame. Not you. Not me. Ty was holding all the cards.
We are each a part of the universe.
But love doesn’t always have to be about the happy ending. Love can be about beginnings, too.
I am not dead” argued Edward. “There are nefarious villains who would have you believe I died. But any accounts of my demise have been grossly exaggerated, I assure you, for here I am, very much alive.
He thinks I’m having trouble expressing my feelings, which is why he suggested I write in a journal – to get it out, he said, like in the old days when physicians used to bleed their patients in order to drain the mysterious poisons. Which almost always ended up killing them in spite of the doctors’ good intentions, I might point out.
It was 1538 and John Lambert had been outed as an Edian when, after hearing Frederic Clarence had written a pamphlet denouncing Edian magic, he turned into a dog and ate the papers, prompting Clarence to cry out, “That dog ate my scriptwork!
It’s just high school, man. Those guys are just high school guys, and in ten years they’re going to be working for people like me. I know that. I just have to make it through two more years.
So he was her husband, Edward might eat her, and no one’s hair could rival his.
But if you are a bucker of the system, a friend of truth, an ally of love, and a believer in magic, then read on.
A word is not simply a word.
We’d fight so much less if everyone would just sit down and read.” Gifford’s.
He would have found the whole thing wildly exciting if he wasn’t so tired of things being so wildly exciting.
Are you calling me a liar?” “I’m calling you a storyteller.