I have never seen him like this, enfolded in an unthreatening somewhere else. My heart is drawn, almost involuntarily, toward him.
We’re not gay. We’re eight.
There’s always tomorrow, I tell myself. Which sounds less possible than someday, and much more possible than never.” -A.
You can tell a lot about a person from the pages he or she chooses to journal on.
She was pretty, though. Like a flower. I missed that.
Prayer or not, I want to believe that, despite all eveidence to the contrary, it is possible for anyone to find that one special person. That person to spend Christmas with or grow old with or just take a nice silly walk in Central Park with. Somebody who wouldn’t judge another for the prepositions they dangle, or their run-on sentences, who in turn wouldn’t be judged for the snobbery of their language etymology inclinations.
The worst thing in the world would be to pretend to know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be home to me. They must be hotel rooms.
Belief. That’s what I want for Christmas. Look it up. Maybe there’s more meaning there than I understand. Maybe you could explain it to me?
He is both the source of my happiness and the one I want to share it with. I have to believe that’s a sign.
Our love had been liking; our feelings had been ordinary, not Shakespearean.
Some bookstores want you to believe they’re a community center, like they need to host a cookie-making class in order to sell you some Proust.
I access our history and get the usual muddle of love and competition that any two sisters share.
That’s the thing about life and love – every time you take another look at them, there’s something else that can be revised.
I know part of knowing someone is being mean to them or whatever.
And Tiny is saying, “If you can’t trust your gut then what can you trust?“And I say, “You can trust that caring, as a rule, ends poorly,” which is true. Caring doesn’t sometimes lead to misery. It always does.
We didn’t have much in common, but I thought that being gay in common would be enough.
The minute you stop talking about individuals and start talking about a group, your judgment has a flaw in it.
Some boys – not many, but a few – are like that, getting their own strength from finding your weakness and poking it. There’s something weirdly transfixing about their confidence, like even as they’re condescending to you, you’re secretly hoping that their strength will rub off and suddenly you’ll be as confident as they are.
He thought it was love. When, in fact, it was like three hundred ninety-fifth in line for love.
I like Darren Criss and “Teenage Dream.