Ann Liang Quotes

Yes, is the obvious answer. I do hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate you so much that whenever I’m around you, I can barely think straight. I can barely even breathe.

I’d rather be the villain who lives to the end than the hero who winds up dead

Why is it me? Why do you always single me out?" "Because," he says quietly. "You're the only person worth paying attention to.

You were right, Sadie Wen. I am completely, helplessly obsessed with you.

And this, I think, is my ultimate fatal flaw. Missing people who don’t miss me back. Clinging on to strands of string that shouldn’t mean half as much as they do. It takes so little for me to love someone, yet so long for me to move on.

For ten years I thought I was preparing to destroy you, when really I was preparing to love you.

I want you to hold me like a grudge, keep me like a promise, haunt me like a ghost.

When you care about someone, you want to be inconvenienced—you wouldn’t mind being inconvenienced by them every day for the rest of your life. That’s what love is. That’s all love really is.

I guess my point is that I do believe in love. Really. I'm just not convinced that kind of love could ever happen to me.

Descartes was wrong, you know, when he said, 'To live well, you must live unseen.' To live well, you must learn to see yourself first. Do you understand what I'm saying?

And everything about this moment is so lovely and so fragile in its loveliness that I’m almost afraid to hold it. Afraid that the spell will break.

I think you're obsessed with me, Sadie Wen.

I didn’t know you had such a praise kink.

We turn pain into a story, because then it has a purpose. Then, we reason, there was a point to it all along. But sometimes pain is just pain, and there’s nothing particularly noble about clinging to it.

Because beneath my apprehension is the stronger, deeply ingrained need to be liked. To be accepted. To be forgiven. To be recognized as good. I'll do anything to redeem myself.

If I’d kissed you,” he goes on, “you would have wanted me for an afternoon, and I would have wanted you for the rest of my life.

You're still a kid, you know.

If I'm not swimming as hard as I can, feet thrashing at the waves, I'm drowning.

But aren’t small things exactly what friendships are made up of? Frayed string bracelets and late-night texts and compilations of your favorite songs? When you take those things away, what do you have left?

I finish underlining the date with my ruler so it's perfectly straight. This is like my version of drugs.

Is it really too much to ask? For people like me to want a bit of that light for ourselves?

Maybe I’ll always be scared. Maybe the fear of getting hurt, of being left alone, will never truly go away. But even if it’s my default setting, I can fight it. So many beautiful things lie on the other side of fear. Like love. Like this.

He pauses, leans closer to inspect the displays. Reaches out, as if to grab something, then retracts his hand. And starts walking all over again." After ten minutes of this, I lose my patience. "Are you here to select bread, or a future wife? What's taking so long?" HIs smile is sharp, taunting. "The latter.

I have all your emails memorized word for word,

And I don't know how to make people stay; I never have.

I've always had this theory that if I wanted something badly enough, the universe will make sure to keep it just out of my reach— either out of boredom or cruelty, like an invisible hand dangling stars on a string.

There’s something strangely intimate about calling someone in the dark. It’s like listening to your favorite song in the middle of a crowded subway; the world narrows down to just you and this voice in your ear, while everyone else around you goes about their lives, completely oblivious. It feels sacred. Like a secret.

But certain joys, I'm discovering, are worth the potential pain.

It's my life, I think with amazement, and it's beautiful, and I can paint it any color I want to.

You have to prove yourself over and over, and when the glory for your most recent achievement expires, as it must, as it always will, you have to start again, but with more eyes trained on you, more people waiting for the day your talent withers, and your discipline weakens, and your charm wears away. Success is only meant to be rented out, borrowed in small doses at a time, never to be owned completely, no matter what price you're willing to pay for it.

Please, Sadie. I’m begging.

God, I've missed him. I somehow still do, even though he's standing right in front of me.

You have to understand...If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you...I wouldn't stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me," he goes on in a rush, like the words are burning him from within, like he has to get it out before the pain becomes overwhelming. "Not just a debating championship or some points for a test or a fancy award or a spot in a competition—but my whole heart. My pride. God, my sanity. It would all be over. You would annihilate me.

Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a pattern.

Sometimes I'm convinced I'll spend the rest of my life this way. Alone. Sometimes I think loneliness is my default setting. - Eliza Lin

And while it's important to know how to fight your way to the top... It's always nice when there are others to help lift us up, don't you think?

Fix this. It's what I've always done, or tried to do. Fix the gap in my family, the holes in my life, patch everything up, smooth everything over.

I really can't stand it when people are angry at me. Like, I know it might be simple for others, but I can't focus on anything else. I can't just forget about it and go on with my own life. It's like there's something hard wedged inside my own chest. I'll always feel guilty. I'll always want to make amends.

What I'm realizing is that if you're quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission.

I sneak a peek at his Spotify playlist, half certain it’ll be all just white noise or classic orchestral music, only to find Taylor Swift’s latest album playing instead.

It's so easy to be generous when you lack nothing. To be nice when you're not in pain. It doesn't matter if people are cheering for someone else, because they're already cheering for me.

Whatever you say, my love.

Iʼm not so familiar with vices— I like to think I have none, but if anything were to count, you would be my only one.

It's cruel, really, how the world tends to present its most beautiful parts to you when you're so profoundly sad.

Julius isn't just a boy. He's my enemy. My equal. My point of comparison. He's the one I'm constantly trying to outrun, to outsmart, to impress.

You're so weird sometimes," he says, and it somehow sounds more affectionate than I love you.

You had to kiss me then kick me then fill my head with your voice.

I hope you remember to miss me when all this is over

Most sincere things feel at least a little embarrassing. It's part of our defense mechanisms. Our heart's way of protecting us from potential hurt. - Zoe

He’d flirt with a teaspoon if the situation called for

It's a challenge. This is what we do, I realize. We talk in circles. We give each other riddles, confounding clues, half answers. Everything and anything but the truth.

If I'm not first, I'm nothing.

For everyone who's ever wished they could be someone else.

This whole time, it's been you, and I didn't even realize. In retrospect, it makes sense, doesn't it? In order to beat the enemy, you have to understand them intimately. You have to observe them, learn their weaknesses, memorize their every word, track their progress, predict their next move. For ten years, I thought I was preparing to destroy you, when really I was preparing to love you. All of which is to say I hope this finds you. And I hope you find me too.

It's nothing like the way they describe it in the movies, like all the stars aligning and fireworks exploding across an ink-black sky. It feels both quieter and bigger than that, as simple as coming home and as dizzying and all-encompassing as the wind rushing in around us. It feels like a thousand banished and buried moments have been building up to this - to us alone and untethered and weak with wanting - and maybe they have.

If awkwardness could be a fatal flaw, it would most definitely be mine.

This Strategic, Mutually Beneficial and Romantically Oriented Alliance to Help Further Our Respective Careers—” “S.M.B.R.O.A.H.F.O.R.C. for short,” I offer. “Yeah, uh, I don’t think that’s shorter,” Caz tells me.

Talent isn't the same as genius" -Henry

I can’t always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and—

I am not Jessica Chen. And maybe Jessica Chen herself isn't either. Maybe nobody is. The very idea of her is a construct, a myth, a distraction, the dream we're forever reaching toward but can never equite grasp.

Because there aren’t thousands of books and poems and movies out there to describe exactly what I’m feeling, or lyrically beautiful songs for me to cry to and sing along with in the car. There’s no guidebook on how to survive this kind of fallout, no prescribed remedy to soothe this particular kind of pain. Romantic breakups are romanticized constantly, talked about everywhere by everyone, but platonic breakups are swept to the side, suffered in secret, as if they’re somehow less important.

Hope is such a terrible thing. It’s like a bad habit you can’t shake off, a stray dog that keeps showing up outside your door for scraps, even when you have nothing left to give. Every time you think you’re rid of it at last, it manages to sneak its way back in. Take over.

isn’t that what homes are made of? A collection of the things that shape you?

It makes me almost dizzy, thinking about the stark differences in realities, what will be and what could've been.

When men say they want a lover, what they often mean is they want a mirror; they wish to see themselves reflected back at them in the best light.

The world becomes beautiful, as long as there's you.

You’ll become the head of the number one tech start-up in all of China, and I’ll be a renowned, award-winning journalist or English professor. Together, we’ll—” “Be the nation’s greatest power couple?” he offers. “I was going to say conquer the world,” I admit. “But sure. I guess we can start small.

Something in me is missing. Lacking.

Romantic breakups are romanticized constantly, talked about everywhere by everyone, but platonic breakups are swept to the side, suffered in secret, as if they’re somehow less important.

Of course, if you...if you don't want to," he says into the silence, sliding his gaze away from me, "I can accept that. I won't bring it up again. I know I'm not....I know what I'm like. That I'm infuriating. And selfish. And cruel. I know I'm not perfect the way my brother is, and I manage to disappoint my parents every time. It's okay if you don't choose me, really—I never expected to be the first choice. I wouldn't blame you‚—" "I do choose you." He doesn't seem to hear me at first. He's still talking, rambling really, the words flowing out like rainwater. "I can't always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and—wait." He stops. Even his breath freezes in his throat. "What...did you just say? Say it again." "I choose you," I say quietly, glad for the shadows concealing my flushed cheeks. For the support of the wall behind me. "You will always be my first choice, Julius Gong.

He lets go of my wrist, dragging a hand through his hair instead. “Good god,” he says with a little laugh. Shakes his head. “For one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, you can really be quite oblivious sometimes.

My pride. God, my sanity. It would all be over. You would annihilate me.

Because to me, wanting has always been indistinguishable from pain.

You remind me of the greatest sculptors, who can turn marble into the impression of billowing silk, the coldest stone into something soft. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that everything you touch turns beautiful. The world becomes beautiful, as long as there's you.

I have never known anybody as completely as I know you, and yet I still want to sit next to you, draw close to you, closer. I want you to tell me every story, want to listen to you speak until the night sinks in the sky and the stars fade out. I want you to hold me like a grudge, keep me like a promise, haunt me like a ghost.

It's so easy to fall into the assumption that anything someone else gains is something you lose. To think of success as some lavish party with only a limited number of invites. To convince yourself that if you could only make it to a certain point in the distance, you'll finally find a place to rest. To feel like there's always more than you can do. But I mean, look what's being done to us - to our self-esteem, to our pride, to our bodies. We're exhausted and on the verge of breaking down at any second and... somehow we're expected to just keep going.

You hold everything in here, Ai-Ai," she says sternly, pointing to her own heart. "For better or worse. But not everyone is going to guess at what you're thinking like I do. No one is going to know how you feel if you don't tell them. And until you do-- you can never really know what's going to happen.

I’ve always wanted that: to be looked up at, to be known by people I’ve never even spoken to before, to be special, distinct, standing up on the tallest, brightest platform. But only now do I realize that when you’re out in the open, alone under the lights, and everyone else is in the darkness, you make for such a terribly easy target.

Maybe you can talk about how... I don't know, how his laughter sounds. If it's rougher in the mornings, or lower on the phone, or how he always tips his head back when he finds something funny. How—how you can only see his dimples when he smiles at something real. How you're jealous of everyone who loves him, who knew him before you did.

I think about why I’m doing this. I think about why I want—no, need, always need—the money. More money. I think about how ironic it is, that in order to become the person I’d like to be, I might have to do the last thing others would expect of me. I think about guilt and karma and survival and how being good doesn’t ever promise you anything in this world—only power does that.

At what point, I wonder, staring at the front door as it swings shut one last time, does something become unfixable? At what point is a tapestry riddled with so many holes and loose threads that it's impossible to patch it up again? That it deserves to be thrown away instead?

That's the one thing I've worked for my entire life -- to be someone who matters. That's why my parents moved to this country. That's my purpose. If I can't do it, then what's the point of anything? What's the point of me? What possible value could I provide?

They-Could-Step-on-Me-and-I’d-Thank-Them

This would be an absolutely incredible, life-changing thing if it happened to me. But for you? It's just another accomplishment, isn't it?

Descartes was wrong, you know, when he said 'To live well, you must live unseen.' To live well, you must learn to see yourself first.

You call that a kiss?

There's nothing you want more than to want -- you'll obsess over something, and convince yourself that so long as you get it, you'll be happy, but then once you do, you're immediately dissatisfied and want something else.

You have to understand . . . If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you . . . I wouldnʼt stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me.

Sometimes I forget that in the bigger scheme of things, it's okay to not be the best at everything. To be surrounded by people who can solve problems you can't, who are talented in different ways, who will go on to change the world.

look what’s being done to us—to our self-esteem, to our pride, to our bodies. We’re all exhausted and on the verge of breaking down at any second and somehow . . . somehow we’re expected to just keep going.

But insincerity is easy. Bullshitting your way through things is easy. It doesn't require any emotional attachment; there aren't any stakes involved. It can't hurt you, because you never believed in any of it anyway. But telling the truth—saying exactly what you mean, how you feel, to the people you care about most... That's one of the hardest things in the world. Because you have to trust them. Trust that they won't hurt you, even when they have the power to.

Dimly, I remember myself thinking not too long ago that we could never kiss. Something about stubbornness. Something about discipline. I remember thinking a month ago about how much I hated him, how I couldn't bear to even be in the same room as him. Now I can't bear the few inches of distance between us.

Streaks of dark, wet pink and glistening blue seep through the sky like spilled watercolor, while floating lanterns rise gently over the horizon like ghosts. A soft breeze drifts over my skin, carrying with it the fragrance of chrysanthemums and fresh-baked pastries from the snack stalls below. Then there’s Henry.

I want to get good grades. Graduate. Get a job in whichever field my strengths lie." His brows furrow, like he doesn't quite believe me. "Not what you're passionate about?" he asks delicately. I lift my chin. "I'm passionate about being good at things." There's a defensive edge in my voice, and Mr. Chen must hear it. He drops the subject. "Well, all right then. I suppose I should let you go to lunch..." "Thanks, Mr. Chen." But as I turn to leave, he adds, very quietly, "You're still a kid, you know." I falter. "what?" His eyes are kind, almost sad when he looks at me. "Even if it doesn't feel that way now, you're still only a kid." He shakes his head. "you're too young to be this hardened by the world. You should be free to dream. To hope.

This is the closest I have ever gotten to voicing the truth: that I'm afraid. That for a long time now, between maybe the third and fourth move, the fourth or fifth friend I lost along the way, I've suspected that there's something fundamentally unlovable about me. Something that makes it easy for people to forget me the second I leave, to drift out of touch no matter how hard I try to keep them in my life. I've said before that my default setting is loneliness, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it's really fear.

The neglected ones, the unlucky ones, the ones who want more than they've been give. The ones who have to crawl and scrape and fight their way up from the very bottom, who have to game a system designed for them to lose. Always the first to be punished and blamed when things go wrong. Always the last to e seen, to be saved.

I'm strong and independent and I don't need anyone,' but the truth is: We do need people. People who'll laugh with us and cry with us and make the bad days bearable and the good days better; people who'll remember what we forget and `listen even when they don't completely understand; people who'll need us back. It had nothing to do with strength at all, and everything to do with being human.

And my heart swells at the silly, simple human fact that when we stumble upon something beautiful, our first instinct is to show it to the people we love. It’s what we do with pretty seashells on a beach, a radiant sunset, a rare bird flitting through the trees, a heard of wild horses grazing in the countryside. “Look,” we say, saving these little pieces of beauty for each other, “Do you see it too? Isn’t the world such a strange, lovely, breathtaking place?

Do you want some?" I ask him, offering up the little remaining liquor to him, since it's only polite. "It doesn't taste that disgusting once you get used to it." He gently pushes the bottle back down. "No, thanks." "What do you want, then? I can give it to you?" This should be a simple enough question. Multiple choice at most. But he falters as if he's received a three-thousand-word essay prompt. Swallows. Looks away. "Nothing," he says at last. "I don't—want anything.

If you ever feel sick again, or hurt, or injured, or weak, you have to tell me. Don’t just keep it to yourself and act tough—” He starts to protest, but I continue over him, knowing I’m probably crossing some invisible line but not caring. “Because no matter what happens... we’re friends now, right? I want to be the person you know you can turn to. The place where you feel safe. I want you to feel like you can just be—human, in front of me. Like you don’t have to always show your best side. Okay?” I add when he opens his mouth to argue again. “Promise me.