I pat her on the head. “Oh, naive little Kitten. Dear, foolish girl. This cookie is worth all this and more. Sit or you will not partake.
They’re not love letters in the strictest sense of the word. My letters are for when I don’t want to be in love anymore. They’re for good-bye. Because after I write my letter, I’m no longer consumed by my all-consuming love.
Just when we thought everything was going to be okay, we all fell apart.
There is something about walking into a room full of boys that makes you feel exposed, inadequate, like you come up short in every way that matters. It didn’t used to be like this, and I don’t know when it changed, but now it feels like it was always this way.
I can see now that it’s the little things, the small efforts, that keep a relationship going. And I know now too that in some small measure I have the power to hurt him and also the power to make it better. This discovery leaves me with an unsettling, queer sort of feeling in my chest for reasons I can’t explain.
We are sisters, and there’s nothing she or I can ever say or do to change that.
I could never be with someone who didn’t understand how important my family is to me. When.
You’re in love with love.
I like him in sweaters. I get the urge to cuddle and pet him like a stuffed animal.
But then I saw the way he blushed, the way he looked off into space, and I knew it wasn’t for me.
She’d known me my whole life. It’s hard to throw away history. It was like you were throwing a part of yourself.
The look on his face made me want to die. It confirmed every mean and low thing I’d ever thought about myself, the stuff you hope and pray no one will ever know about you. Because if they knew, they would see the real you, and they would despise you.
Pack light and figure the rest out as you go.
Peter’s gone away on his training weekend. It’s only been one day and I’m already longing for him the way I long for Christmas in July. Peter is my cocoa in a cup, my red mittens, my Christmas morning feeling. He.
Firsts are special.
John nods. “So I gathered a bunch of sticks and some flowers and I arranged them into the letters FORMAL? in front of your window. But your dad came home while I was in the middle of it, and he thought I was going around cleaning people’s yards. He gave me ten bucks, and I lost my nerve and I just went home.
It’s scary when it’s real. When it’s not just thinking about a person, but, like, having a real live person in front of you, with, like, expectations. And wants. Even when I liked a boy so much, loved him even, I would always rather be with my sisters, because that’s where I belong.
To picture him, sitting at his desk at home, scribbling away with a pen and paper, endears him to me so completely. It gives me shivers. Currents of electricity from my scalp down to my toes.
Maybe it’s not that I’m a Mysterious Girl. Maybe it’s that I’m a Not Good Enough Girl.
I wish we could see Hamilton.