Sarah Dessen (born June 6, 1970) is an American writer who lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
Because it is so hard, in any life, to believe in what you can’t fully understand.
If you didn't always have to choose between turning away for good or rushing in deeper. In the moments that it really counts, maybe it's enough - more than enough, even - just to be there.
I was worn out, broken: He had taken almost everything. But he'd been all I'd had, all this time. And when the police led him away, I pulled out of the hands of all these loved one, sobbing, screaming, everything hurting, to try and make him stay.
You know, when it works, love is pretty amazing. It's not overrated. There's a reason for all those songs.
As if it didnt matter what was on, but instead how hard i was listening.
I mean, it's not surprising, really. Once you love something, you always love it in some way. You have to. It's, like, part of you for good.
See," he began, leaning back into the booth, "I was at this car dealership today, and I saw this girl. It was an across-a-crowded-room kind of thing. A real moment, you know?" I rolled my eyes. Chloe said, "And this would be Remy?" "Right. Remy," he said, repeating my name with a smile. Then, as if we were happy honeymooners recounting our story for strangers he added, "Do you want to tell the next part?" "No," I said flatly.
When he stopped walking and kissed me a few minutes later, it was like time had stopped, with the air, my heart, and the world all so still. And it was this I remembered every other time I was with Marshall.
There was something striking about a single key. It was like a question waiting to be answered, a whole missing a half. Useless on its own, needing something else to be truly defined.
The first boy was always the hardest.
But you don’t have to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. ” “You don’t have to assume the worst about everyone, either. The world isn’t always out to get you.
She bought seeds and raided nurseries and mulched and composted and spent full days with her hands full of earth, coaxing life our of the dry, dull grass my father had spent years pushing a mower over.
I reached up with my finger and traced the scar over my eyebrow, remembering when that was the greatest hurt I'd ever known.
If you could just be nice, then you wouldn't have to worry about arguments at all. but being nice wasn't as easy as it seemed, especially when the rest of the world could be so mean.
It's harder that in looks," I told him when I finally got back in the car. "Most things are.
In midair, dangling lost above the world.
She said writting novels was like childbirth: if you truly remembered how awful it got, you'd never do it again.
There comes a point when things are undeniable and can't be hidden any longer. Even from yourself.
Like a word on a page that you’ve printed and read a million times, that suddenly looks strange or wrong, foreign. And you feel scared for a second, like you’ve lost something, even if you’re not sure what it is.
Please. She sighed. 'Can't a girl have high standards? I don't want an ordinary boy.