Broke Friendship Quotes

Too bad Jason wasn’t a metal automaton. At least then Leo would have some idea of how to help his best friend. But with humans … Leo felt helpless. They broke way too easily.

I took a step forward, rage swirling inside me. “You broke into Mount Weather?” Hunter choked out a laugh. “Are you insane?” “Shut up,” I said, keeping my eyes on Luc. Hunter made a deep noise. “Our little mutual white flag of friendship is going to come to a halt if you tell me to shut up again.” I spared him a brief glance. “Shut. Up.” Dark shadows drifted over the Arum’s shoulder, and I faced him fully. “What?” I said, throwing my hands up in a universal come get some. “I have a lot of pent-up violence I’d love to take out on someone.” “Guys.” Luc sighed, sliding off the bar. “Seriously? Can’t you two bro-mance it out?

Well, this is a story about books." About books?" About accursed books, about a man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of anovel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind." You talk like the jacket blurb of a Victorian novel, Daniel." That's probably because I work in a bookshop and I've seen too many. But this is a true story.

The fastest way to find out if someone is really your friend, is to tell them that you’re broke.

I watched, hoping she wouldn't come out too broke. It's all you can do for people sometimes, no matter how much you love them.

He caught my hip, steadying me. “This’ll change everything,” he broke away from my mouth to say. “Once I’m inside you, you’re mine, I’m yours, and we are together. There will be no friendship and mild dating. It’s going to be all or nothing.” I gazed up into his eyes. “Then make me your all.” His eyes heated. “You always were.

As suddenly as they had reached for each other, they broke apart. Tears were rolling down Robin's face. For one moment of madness, Strike yearned to say, “Come with me”, but there are words that can never be unsaid or forgotten, and those, he knew, were some of them.

Max." Fang let go of my hand. "Right now, it's really all about—us." He swooped down to the right in a big semicircle, ending facing me. Slowly we climbed upward, until we were almost vertical, flying straight up to the sun. While carefully synchronizing our wings—they almost touched—Fang leaned in, gently put one hand behind my neck, and kissed me. It was just about as close to heaven as I'll ever get, I guess. I closed my eyes, lost in the feeling of flying and kissing and being with the one person in the world I completely, utterly trusted. When we finally broke apart, we looked down at the others, who were way far below us now. Angel was shading her eyes, looking up at us with a big smile. She was sitting on a dolphin's back, and I hoped soon someone would explain to the dolphin that he shouldn't let Angel take advantage of his good nature. Still looking up at us, Angel gave us a big thumbs-up. "She approves," Fang said with a hint of amusement. "Jeez," I wondered aloud. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Their hands slapped library door handles together, their chests broke track tapes together, their tennis shoes beat parallel pony tracks over lawns, trimmed bushes, squirreled trees, no one losing, both winning, thus saving their friendship for other times of loss.

Grandmomma always said people were like tacos—the harder they were, the easier they broke. Being soft meant being adaptive, more flexible. “When you’re soft, you can contain more. And if you contain more, the world can’t break you.

That kiss was amazing; it had all the passion and longing we had been holding onto for so long. That is when the dam finally broke for me and I started crying. I knew right then that Hunter was the only one I wanted. He was my happily ever after.

I am not a man who often expresses is emotions, Miss Linton." "You don't say?" "But I must admit I was... somewhat concerned for you." I had to work hard to keep a smile from my face." "Somewhat concerned? Dear God, really?" Abruptly, he turned to me, his eyes blazing with cold fire. "Dammit! Do not joke, Miss Linton!" I looked up at him, the picture of innocence drawn by a five-year-old with absolutely no artistic talent. "I wouldn't dare!" Stepping towards me, he reached out, until one of his hands gently touched my cheek. "I..." He swallowed, and tried again. "I might be slightly... irrationally infatuated with you." Warmth spread deep inside me. And on my face, a grin did. "Irrationally infatuated? Dear me!" His jaw clenched. "All right, all right! I may even have certain... impulses towards you that border on caring about you." "You don't say?" I raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, I am so glad to hear that you feel a certain amount of friendship towards me." His dark gaze pierced me accusingly. But I was enjoying this far too much to stop. I wouldn't make it easy for him. "Friendship is not the right word, Miss Linton," he bit out between clenched teeth, every word like a shard of burning ice. "My impulses towards you... they might go slightly beyond the platonic." "Oh, so they are Aristotelian?" "Mr Lin-" He swallowed, hard. "I mean Miss Linton, we are not discussing philosophy here!" I batted my eyelashes at him. "Indeed? Then pray tell, what are we discussing?" "I... I..." "You can say it, you know," I told him. "The word isn't poisonous." "I... have feelings towards you." "Clearly. I knew that from the first day from the way you shouted at me and pelted me with threats." "Not those kinds of feelings!" "What kind, then?" "I feel... affection towards you." "You're nearly there," I encouraged him, my smile widening. "Just four little letters. The word starts with L. Go on. You can do it." "You're enjoying this, Miss Linton, aren't you?" "Very much so." "Oh, to hell with it!"... His mouth took mine in a fast, fierce, bruising kiss... Finally he broke away, and with the remnants of his breath whispered: "I love you!

And I want you to know that I heard what you said in that speech,' Rider said, his voice scratchy. 'I might've saved you all those years ago, but now you've saved me,' My heart stuttered and then sped up. I reacted without thought. Placing the book on the bed, I launched myself at Rider just as he came off the window seat. We collided. I folded my arms around him as we went down onto the floor, me partially in his lap and his arms tight around my waist, his face burrowed against my neck. I felt a tremor run through his body and then he shook in my arms. I held him tighter as he broke into pieces, and years of holding it together shattered. I held him through it all. Then it was me who put Rider back together.

well, this is a story about books.' 'About books?' 'About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.

After a while, when he finished telling his stories, they broke bread to bind their friendship and shared salt as a promise of his tribe’s protection.

He’d gone goofy for her, and if she broke his heart, that would be the end of the best friendship he’d ever had. He couldn’t risk that.

The only shame George Webber felt was that at one time in his life, for however short a period, he broke bread and sat at the same table with any man when the living warmth of friendship was not there; or that he ever traded upon the toil of his brain and the blood of his heart to get the body of a scented whore that might have been better got in a brothel for some greasy coins. This was the only shame he felt. And this shame was so great in him that he wondered if all his life thereafter would be long enough to wash out of his brain and blood the last pollution of its loathsome taint.

I shut down right there because we've been here before, after Dylan broke up with Harriett. Being Harriett's friend was weird for Dylan, and me trying to be Hudson's friend was weird for Arthur. But maybe this isn't how life works. Maybe it's all about people coming into your life for a little while and you take what they give you and use it on your next friendship or relationship. And if you're lucky, maybe some people pop back in after you thought they were gone for good. Like Hudson and Harriett.

Because the end of a friendship isn’t even formally acknowledged—no Little Talk, no papers served—you walk around effectively heartbroken but embarrassed to admit it, even to yourself. It’s a special, open-ended kind of pain, like having a disease that doesn’t even have a name. You worry you must be pathetically oversensitive to feel so wounded over such a thing. You can’t tell people, “My friend broke up with me,” without sounding like a nine-year-old. The only phrase I can think of that even recognizes this kind of hurt—“You look like you just lost your best friend”—is only ever spoken by adults to children. You can give yourself the same ineffectual lecture your parents used to give you as a kid: anyone who’d treat you this way isn’t a very good friend and doesn’t deserve your friendship anyway. But the nine-year-old in you knows that the reason they’ve ditched you is that you suck.

On a grim and dismal day that shattered my last ounce of confidence, I broke down and whimpered, “I’m awful and hideous and incompetent and boring and utterly useless.” And then you grinned at me and said, “That’s okay.

Which act would you prefer for tonight?” His questions broke through my musings. I was all too glad for the interruption. “What do you mean?” He shrugged. “There’s the new lovers act, the friends-who-fuck act, the swingers act, the gold-digger and sugar-daddy act, the fighting couple act—” “What about a platonic friendship act?” I interrupted. He looked at me as if I’d finally spoken a language he couldn’t understand. “Is that a joke?” ... “Then come.” Ian extended his arm with a hint of a grin. “I’ve decided our act tonight will be the fighting couple. Shouldn’t present too much of a challenge, should it?” I felt a wry smile tug at my mouth. “I think we’ll manage.

I don’t want to have sex with Lydia. But I think maybe other kinds of touches would be nice. Maybe there’s some subset of being in love with someone that doesn’t involve having sex with them but just involves hugging. Maybe we can figure out how hugging works by practicing on each other.

This is a story about books. ... About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a sory of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.

How could I determine if his friendship request was sincere? Yet his declaration in the kitchen had seemed heartfelt and authentic. I wanted to believe him, but I also couldn't afford to. My heart would be obliterated when we broke up if I went ahead and gave in to my desire to be loved for who I was.

Well, this is a story about books.” “About books?” “About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It’s a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.

2 NOTES “You broke your other appointment, didn’t you?” “I did not! I told you on the phone—these people canceled at the last minute—” “Oh, Geo dear, come off it! You know, I sometimes think, about you, whenever you do something really sweet, you’re ashamed of it afterwords! You knew jolly well how badly I needed you tonight, so you broke that appointment. I could tell you were fibbing, the minute you opened your mouth! You and I can’t pull the wool over each other’s eyes. I found that out, long ago. Haven’t you—after all these years?” “I certainly should have,” he agrees, smiling and thinking what an absurd and universally accepted bit of nonsense it is that your best friends must necessarily be the ones who best understand you.

I always find myself wanting to write, She broke my heart. But it never looks right on the page. I'm a girl, and we weren't lovers, and most people don't call the end of a friendship a break up. But that's the only phrase that seems to sum up how it feels to have lost her. To see her every single day, but not be able to say anything to her, or know anything about her life anymore.

1. I think what haunts many people in the world is to lose something they love, something they value, and someone they care for, for me it was my father, I was losing him when I met him. I felt life is bitter, it happens. I laughed while I see him but there was a girl inside me, who was crying and feeling angry for life and the way it treats people. Deep inside I was already broke, but I smiled to show my father.

Shall I stop in to check on Bella before I go?” “Not dressed like that. You would give her palpitations if she knew you were going into danger for her benefit.” “Luckily, I am mostly immune to Bella’s powers and could cure such palpitations with a thought,” Gideon mused. Jacob raised a brow, taking the medic’s measure. He could not recall the last time he had heard the Ancient crack wise about anything. It was not a wholly unpleasant experience, and it amused the Enforcer. “I . . . am aware of what is occurring between you and Legna, as you know,” Jacob mentioned with casual quiet. “I am only recently Imprinted myself, but should you require—” He broke off, suddenly uncomfortable. “Of course, you probably know far more about Imprinting than I ever will.” He is reaching out to you. Legna’s soft encouragement made Gideon suddenly aware of that fact. It was one of those nuances he would have missed completely, rusty as he was with matters of friendship and how to relate better to others. “I am glad for the offer of any help you can provide,” Gideon said quickly. “In fact, I had wanted to ask you . . . something . . .” What did I want to ask him? he asked Legna urgently. I do not know! I did not tell you to engage him, just to graciously accept his offer. Oh. My apologies. Still, you are clever enough to think of something, are you not? Legna knew he was baiting her, so she laughed. Ask him why it is you seem to constantly irritate me. I will ask him no such thing, Magdelegna. Well then, you had better come up with an alternative, because that is the only suggestion I have. “Yes?” Jacob was encouraging neutrally, trying to be patient as the medic seemed to gather his thoughts. “Do you find that your mate tends to lecture you incessantly?” he asked finally. Jacob laughed out loud. “You know something, I can actually advise you about that, Gideon.” “Can you?” The medic actually sounded hopeful. “Give up. Now. While you still have your sanity. Arguing with her will get you nowhere. And, also, never ever ask questions that refer to the whys and wherefores of women, females, or any other feminine-based criticism. Otherwise you will only earn an argument at a higher decibel level. Oh, and one other thing.” Gideon cocked a brow in question. “All the rules I just gave you, as well as all the ones she lays down during the course of your relationship, can and will change at whim. So, as I see it, you can consider yourself just as lost as every other man on the planet. Good luck with it.” “That is not a very heartening thought,” Gideon said wryly, ignoring Legna’s giggle in his background thoughts.

Life has a way of showing you how strong you are and how much you can take. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I guess there’s some kind of truth in that. As for me, what didn’t kill me broke me into a trillion pieces. What didn’t kill me made me bitter. What didn’t kill me caused a lot of hurt and pain. What didn’t kill me made me want more out of life. What didn’t kill me after all the shit I’d been through finally showed me mercy.

I shut down right there because we’ve been here before, after Dylan broke up with Harriett. Being Harriett’s friend was weird for Dylan, and me trying to be Hudson’s friend was weird for Arthur. But maybe this isn’t how life works. Maybe it’s all about people coming into your life for a little while and you take what they give you and use it on your next friendship or relationship. And if you’re lucky, maybe some people pop back in after you thought they were gone for good. Like Hudson and Harriett.

It’s such a disaster, whenever, in the course of human relationships, someone begins to chisel away at the wall of separation between friendship and kissing. Breaking down that wall is the kind of story that might have a happy middle—oh, look, we broke down this wall, I’m going to look at you like a girl and you’re going to look at me like a boy and we’re going to play a fun game called Can I Put My Hand There What About There What About There. And sometimes that happy middle looks so great that you can convince yourself that it’s not the middle but will last forever.

At her words, words of forgiveness from Rose, an honest and just woman, something broke inside of Wince. His tears began to flow. Age seemed to drift from his face like misty ghosts from a morning field. Katie lifted his chin and, holding back her own tears, looked into his eyes. "Thank you, Wince." Eve placed her free hand on his shoulder. "May we hold her now?" Wince nodded and gently released the baby into the waiting arms of her sisters. "You did the right thing, Wince." Rose gave Wince a hug. "And you can help us bury her after Wilson and the Tar Ponds City Police see if they can find anybody to lay charges against after all this time.

Approaching the trail, he broke through the thicket a short distance ahead of the Empath. Causing the Empaths horse to startle as the surprised rider jerked on the reins. Cap was equally surprised to find a young girl before him instead of an older, experienced male Empath. Cap brought his horse to a quick halt. The young girl pulled a small knife from her boot and cautioned him. "I don't know where you came from, but I'm not easy prey.” Her voice shook slightly with fear as she raised the knife. Not sure how to proceed, they stared silently at each other. Cap had always believed that Empaths didn't carry weapons. This pretty, chestnut haired girl couldn't be more than 18 years old. Her long straight tresses covered the spot on her jacket where the Empathic Emblem was usually worn, causing Cap to doubt she was the one he sought. Not wanting to frighten her any more than he already had, Cap tried to explain. "I'm Commander Caplin Taylor. I’m looking for an Empath that is headed for the Western Hunting Lodge.” "My name is Kendra; I am the Empath you seek.” She answered cautiously, still holding the blade. A noise from the brush drew her attention as a small rodent pounced out, trying to evade an unseen predator. Cap was just close enough to lurch forward and snatch the dirk from her hand. Her head jerked back in alarm. "Bosen May has been mauled by a Sraeb, his shoulder is a mass of pulp." Cap spoke quickly not wanting to hesitate any longer. That was all Kendra needed to hear. She pushed her horse past him and headed quickly down the trail. "Wait!" Cap called after her, turning his horse around. Reining in the horse, she turned back to face him annoyed by the delay. "Are you a good horseman?" Cap asked, as he stuffed her dirk in his jacket. "I've been in the saddle since I was a child." She answered, abruptly. "Okay so just a few years then?" Cap's rebuke angered her. Jerking the horse back toward the trail, she ignored him. "Wait, I'm sorry!" Cap called after her. "It's just that I know a quicker way, if you can handle some rough terrain." "Let’s go then." Kendra replied, gruffly, turning back to face him. Without another word, Cap dove back into the brush and the girl followed.

Clearly historical events have varying degrees of intensity. Some may almost fail to impinge on true reality, that is, on the central, most personal part of a person's life. Others can wreak such havoc there that nothing is left standing. The usual way in which history is written fails to reveal this. '1890: Wilhelm II dismisses Bismark.' Certainly a key event in German history, but scarcely an event at all in the biography of any German outside its small circle of protagonists. Life went on as before. No family was torn apart, no friendship broke up, no one fled their country. Not even a rendezvous was missed or an opera performance cancelled. Those in love, whether happily or not, remained so; the poor remained poor and the rich rich. Now compare that with '1933: Hindenburg sends for Hitler.' An earthquake shatters sixty - six million lives. Official academic history has nothing to tell us about the differences in intensity of historical occurrences. To learn about that, you must read biographies, not those of statesmen but the all too rare ones of unknown individuals. There you will see that one historical event passes over the private (real) lives of people like a cloud over a lake. Nothing stirs, there is only a fleeting shadow. Another event whips up the lake as if in a thunderstorm. For a while it is scarcely recognisable. A third may, perhaps, drain the lake completely. I believe history is misunderstood if this aspect is forgotton (and it is usually forgotton).

When dawn broke, the city lay far behind me, and the haunting vision of that fearful, menacing figure had vanished. The coachman's question: “Where to?” brought home to me how I had forsaken all friendship in life and was roaming the earth at the mercy of the rolling waves of chance. Yet had not an unchallengeable power wrenched me away from everything to which I had been attached, just so that the spirit within me should unfurl and beat its wings with irresistible force? Like a nomad I roved through the countryside, finding no peace. I was driven on and on, further and further southwards. Without realizing it, I had up to now hardly deviated from the itinerary laid down for me by Leonardus, and as if impelled by his will, I journeyed onwards.

In 1934, Daphne’s book Gerald: A Portrait had caused a great furore, since it broke with conventional biography with all its polite limitations, and was instead a frank and honest portrait. Gerald was written with great love and sympathy; in it Daphne was never cruel or unkind, but she described the shadowed side of her matinée-idol father, haunted as Kicky had been before him by bouts of nerves and depression, unsure of himself or of those he loved best, and afflicted at times by a doubt that anything at all in life was really worthwhile. I read Gerald at one sitting, perched in the sun by the side window at Mena, and even now have only to open the book to find myself back at that wooden garden table, seated in a wicker chair that was shaped like an upturned Welsh coracle

You smell nice,’ she said. ‘Chanel,’ he said. ‘Wasted on you,’ she said and he reached into his bag and pulled out an almond tart. ‘Look what I’ve got,’ he said triumphantly as he lowered it under her nose. ‘Almonds,’ she said, ‘just like Paris.’ ‘For us to share,’ he said, ‘just like Paris.’ I never knew if she had any real appetite or not for she hadn’t eaten solids for days. But he broke a piece off and held it to her mouth and she ate hungrily for it was the memory she was tasting again and the memory tasted good. I moved a chair close to the bed for him and he sat down and held her hand. his own death he’d made peace with years ago but everyone else’s still frightened him and so he held her hand to not let her go. He held her hand because he wasn’t ready to let her go.

There is always the risk: something is good and good and good and good, and then all at once it gets awkward. All at once, she sees you looking at her, and then she doesn't want to joke around with you anymore, because she doesn't want to seem flirty, because she doesn't want you to think she likes you. It's such a disaster, whenever, in the course of human relationships, someone begins to chisel away at the wall of separation between friendship and kissing. Breaking down that wall is the kind of story that might have a happy middle - oh, look, we broke down this wall, I'm going to look at you like a girl and you're going to look at me like a boy and we're going to play a fun game called Can I Put My Hand There What About There What About There. And sometimes that happy middle looks so great that you can convince yourself that it's not the middle but will last forever.

These people lived insular, often deeply private lives focused on their work. Their voices were rarely heard, because they sought no audience. Their identities were constructed from things that couldn’t be bought in shops. They wore old clothes and only went shopping occasionally for essentials. They held “shop-bought” things in great contempt. They preferred cash to credit, and would mend anything that broke, piling up old things to use again someday, rather than throwing them away. They had hobbies and interests that cost nothing, turning their necessary tasks, like catching rats or foxes, into sport. Their friendships were built around their work, and the breeds of cattle and sheep they kept. They rarely took holidays or bought new cars. And it wasn’t all work—a lot of time was spent on farm-related activities that were communal and more relaxed, or in the simple enjoyment of wild things. My grandfather called this way of life “living quietly.

Ow! That’s my leg, you know.” She rubbed the sore spot. “I’m gonna have a big bruise there now. Thanks a lot.” “Just tell everyone you had to fend off a pack of unicorns with your bare hands. ‘Cause you were just walking around, minding your own business, cavorting with nature, when a bunch of unicorns descended upon you unexpectedly, and wanted to practice their horn- fighting with a human, just in case they happened upon a wizard and they had to battle to stay free. A wizard would use his wand, so you grabbed a stick, but the stick broke, so you only had your hands. And one of the unicorns’ horns went through your leg, and ‘cause their horns have healing qualities or whatever, the hole healed, but he was just a young unicorn, so his powers hadn’t developed fully yet, and so you were left with this battle scar that’ll mark you as a hero for the rest of your life.” There was a brief silence. “You’re full of crap, you know that, right?” “Yup. But I feel better for it.

I still feel a pang every time I look at her,’ I admitted. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ he said enthusiastically. ‘A pang! A quickness in the heart.’ ‘Love,’ I said drily. ‘We’re lucky, you and I,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s friendship, it’s love, and it’s still something more. It’s what the Irish call anmchara, a soul friend. Who else do you want to talk to at the day’s end? I love the evenings when we can just sit and talk and the sun goes down and moths come in to the candles.’ ‘And we talk of children,’ I said, and wished I had not, ‘and of servants’ quarrels, and whether the cross-​eyed kitchen slave is pregnant again, and we wonder who broke the pothook, and whether the thatch needs repair or whether it will last another year, and we try to work out what to do about the old dog that can’t walk any more, and what excuse Cadell will conjure up for not paying his rent again, and we discuss whether the flax has steeped enough, and if we should rub butterwort on the cows’ udders to improve their yield. That’s what we talk of.

She let herself be had. With two women in the room behind her and her staff wandering the halls, she relaxed into his hold and returned his kiss. He tasted of the tea, of the sweetness of sugar; he tasted like a very bad idea that she would soon regret, but not now. Never now, while he kissed her yet. His hand skimmed down her body, shaping her breast. She opened her eyes and discovered him watching her, so blue his eyes were, and his palm over her stiffening nipple suddenly seemed to carry a message, too. The audacity of his touch, paired with the frank boldness of his look, made her laugh from sheer delight. She felt him grin against her mouth. His hand slipped farther yet, seizing her by the waist and pulling her more solidly against him. Her joints felt like melting waxworks, incapable of supporting her. She flung her arms around him and let him have all of her weight—and hit the wall harder yet as he stepped straight into her. Now she was doubly pinned, the tight, taut planes of his body as unyielding as the plaster behind her. Again he kissed her, harder yet, as though trying to convince her of something. What? What was the aim of his persuasion? She kissed him back eagerly, for did he not see? She was already convinced. She found his hair, soft and a touch too long, where it brushed against his collar. The skin beneath was hot and smooth. Her palm wrapped around his nape, and as she gripped him, she shuddered. This need felt elemental. Like hunger or thirst. From the entry hall far below came the sound of voices. They froze. Her eyes snapped open. His were so very, very blue. Someone would see them. They stood in plain view. His face turned into her neck. She heard, felt, the great breath he drew. Very low, against her skin, the roughness of his jaw abrading her, he spoke. “Friendship is not what I want.” Her hands broke free of her caution. They found his back, gathering in handfuls the soft wool of his jacket. Think. There were reasons, very good reasons, to discourage him. Money: he had none. Power: he had too much over her. He simply didn’t realize it.

The move to London was followed by two results of great importance for Elizabeth Barrett. In the first place, her health, which had never been strong, broke down altogether in the London atmosphere, and it is from some time shortly after the arrival in Gloucester Place that the beginning of her invalid life must be dated. On the other hand, residence in London brought her into the neighbourhood of new friends; and although the number of those admitted to see her in her sick-room was always small, we yet owe to this fact the commencement of some of her closest friendships, notably those with her distant cousin, John Kenyon, and with Miss Mitford, the authoress of ‘Our Village,’ and of a correspondence on a much fuller and more elaborate scale than any of the earlier period. To this, no doubt, the fact of her confinement to her room contributed not a little; for being unable to go out and see her friends, much of her communication with them was necessarily by letter. At the same time her literary activity was increasing. She began to contribute poems to various magazines, and to be brought thereby into connection with literary men; and she was also employed on the longer compositions which went to make up her next volume of published verse.

Matthew closed the door and turned toward her. He seemed very large in the small room, his broad frame dwarfing their civilized surroundings. Daisy’s mouth went dry as she stared at him. She wanted to be close to him… she wanted to feel all his skin against hers. “What is there between you and Llandrindon?” he demanded. “Nothing. Only friendship. On my side, that is.” “And on his side?” “I suspect— well, he seemed to indicate that he would not be averse to— you know.” “Yes, I know,” he said thickly. “And even though I can’t stand the bastard, I also can’t blame him for wanting you. Not after the way you’ve teased and tempted him all week.” “If you’re trying to imply that I’ve been acting like some femme fatale—” “Don’t try to deny it. I saw the way you flirted with him. The way you leaned close when you talked… the smiles, the provocative dresses…” “Provocative dresses?” Daisy asked in bemusement. “Like that one.” Daisy looked down at her demure white gown, which covered her entire chest and most of her arms. A nun couldn’t have found fault with it. She glanced at him sardonically. “I’ve been trying for days to make you jealous. You would have saved me a lot of effort if you’d just admitted it straight off.” “You were deliberately trying to make me jealous?” he exploded. “What in God’s name did you think that would accomplish? Or is turning me inside out your latest idea of an entertaining hobby?” A sudden blush covered her face. “I thought you might feel something for me… and I hoped to make you admit it.” Matthew’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t seem to speak. Daisy wondered uneasily what emotion was working on him. After a few moments he shook his head and leaned against the dresser as if he needed physical support. “Are you angry?” she asked apprehensively. His voice sounded odd and ragged. “Ten percent of me is angry.” “What about the other ninety percent?” “That part is just a hairsbreadth away from throwing you on that bed and—” Matthew broke off and swallowed hard. “Daisy, you’re too damned innocent to understand the danger you’re in. It’s taking all the self-control I’ve got to keep my hands off you. Don’t play games with me, sweetheart. It’s too easy for you to torture me, and I’m at my limit. To put to rest any doubts you might have… I’m jealous of every man who comes within ten feet of you. I’m jealous of the clothes on your skin and the air you breathe. I’m jealous of every moment you spend out of my sight.” Stunned, Daisy whispered, “You… you certainly haven’t shown any sign of it.” “Over the years I’ve collected a thousand memories of you, every glimpse, every word you’ve ever said to me. All those visits to your family’s home, those dinners and holidays— I could hardly wait to walk through the front door and see you.” The corners of his mouth quirked with reminiscent amusement. “You, in the middle of that brash, bull-headed lot… I love watching you deal with your family. You’ve always been everything I thought a woman should be. And I have wanted you every second of my life since we first met.

What’s going on, chick?” she asks, taking a drink. She knows that when Johnnie comes out, something bad has happened. I suck on my teeth and shake my head. She cringes at the burn of whiskey, waiting for me to say more. I glance down at my bracelet. “My past caught up with me.” She slides the bottle back my way. “Need me to hurt someone?” she asks, dead serious. She and I are as close as friends come, and we have been since senior year of high school. And at the core of our friendship is a pact of sorts: nothing’s going to drag her towards the future she doesn’t want, and nothing’s going drag me back into the past I’ve worked to forget. Nothing. I huff out a laugh. “Eli’s already beaten you to it.” “Eli?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Girl, I’m hurt. Hoes before bros, remember?” “I didn’t ask him to get involved. I broke up with him, and then he got involve—” “What!” She grabs the table. “You broke up with him? When were you going to tell me?” “Today. I was going to tell you today.” She’s shaking her head. “Bitch, you should’ve called me.” “I was busy ending a relationship.” She falls back into her seat. “Shit girl, Eli’s going to stop giving us a discount.” “That’s what your most upset by?” I say, taking another swig of whiskey. “No,” she says. “I’m happy you grew a vagina and broke up with him. He deserves better.” “I’m going to throw this bottle of whiskey at you.” She holds her hands up to placate me. “I’m kidding. But seriously, are you okay?” I barely stop myself from looking at my computer screen again. I exhale. “Honestly? I have no fucking clue.

I’m wondering what it would be like to be kissed by you.” “Let’s not go there,” he said. “I don’t want to mess up our friendship.” “It wouldn’t,” she said, grinning suddenly. “I’d like to know how it feels. I mean, as an experiment.” “Put the wrong chemicals together, and they explode.” She frowned. “Are you saying you don’t think I’d like it? Or that I would?” “It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to kiss you.” She looked up at him shyly, from beneath lowered lashes, and gave him a cajoling smile. “Just one teeny, weeny little kiss?” He laughed at her antics. Inside his stomach, about a million butterflies had taken flight. “Don’t play games with me, Summer.” He said it with a smile, but it was a warning. One she ignored. She crooked her finger and wiggled it, gesturing him toward her. “Come here, and give me a little kiss.” She was doing something sultry with her eyes, something she’d never done before. She’d turned on some kind of feminine heat, because he was burning up just looking at her. “Stop this,” he said in a guttural voice. She canted her hip and put her hand on it, drawing his attention in that direction, then slid her tongue along the seam of her lips to wet them. “I’m ready, bad boy. What are you waiting for?” His heart was beating a hundred miles a minute. He was hot and hard and ready. And if he touched her, he was going to ruin everything. “I’m not going to kiss you, Summer.” He saw the disappointment flash in her eyes. Saw the determination replace it. “All right. I’ll kiss you.” He could have stopped her. He was the one with the powerful arms and the broad chest and the long, strong legs. But he wanted that kiss. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t expect fireworks. I’m only doing this because we’re friends.” And if she believed that, he had some desert brushland he could sell her. Suddenly, she seemed uncertain, and he felt a pang of loss. Silly to feel it so deeply, when kissing Summer had been the last thing he’d allowed himself to dream about. Although, to be honest, he hadn’t always been able to control his dreams. She’d been there, all right. Hot and wet and willing. He made himself smile at her. “Don’t worry, kid. It was a bad idea. To be honest, I value our friendship too much—” She threw herself into his arms, clutching him around the neck, so he had to catch her or get bowled over. “Whoa, there,” he said, laughing and hugging her with her feet dangling in the air. “It doesn’t matter that you’ve changed your mind about wanting that kiss. I’m just glad to be your friend.” She leaned back in his embrace, searching his eyes, looking for something. Before he could do or say anything to stop her, she pressed her lips softly against his. His whole body went rigid. “Billy,” she murmured against his lips. “Please. Kiss me back.” “Summer, I don’t—” She pressed her lips against his again, damp and pliant and inviting. He softened his mouth against hers, felt the plumpness of her upper lip, felt the open, inviting seam, and let his tongue slide along the length of it. “Oh.” She broke the kiss and stared at him with dazed eyes. Eyes that sought reason where there was none. He wanted to rage at her for ruining everything. They could never be friends now. Not now that he’d tasted her, not now that she’d felt his want and his need. He lowered his head to take her mouth, to take what he’d always wanted.

Dear Jon, A real Dear Jon let­ter, how per­fect is that?! Who knew you’d get dumped twice in the same amount of months. See, I’m one para­graph in and I’ve al­ready fucked this. I’m writ­ing this be­cause I can’t say any of this to you face-to-face. I’ve spent the last few months ques­tion­ing a lot of my friend­ships and won­der­ing what their pur­pose is, if not to work through big emo­tional things to­gether. But I now re­al­ize: I don’t want that. And I know you’ve all been there for me in other ways. Maybe not in the lit­eral sense, but I know you all would have done any­thing to fix me other than lis­ten­ing to me talk and al­low­ing me to be sad with­out so­lu­tions. And now I am writ­ing this let­ter rather than pick­ing up the phone and talk­ing to you be­cause, de­spite every thing I know, I just don’t want to, and I don’t think you want me to ei­ther. I lost my mind when Jen broke up with me. I’m pretty sure it’s been the sub­ject of a few of your What­sApp con­ver­sa­tions and more power to you, be­cause I would need to vent about me if I’d been friends with me for the last six months. I don’t want it to have been in vain, and I wanted to tell you what I’ve learnt. If you do a high-fat, high-pro­tein, low-carb diet and join a gym, it will be a good dis­trac­tion for a while and you will lose fat and gain mus­cle, but you will run out of steam and eat nor­mally again and put all the weight back on. So maybe don’t bother. Drunk­en­ness is an­other idea. I was in black­out for most of the first two months and I think that’s fine, it got me through the evenings (and the oc­ca­sional af­ter­noon). You’ll have to do a lot of it on your own, though, be­cause no one is free to meet up any more. I think that’s fine for a bit. It was for me un­til some­one walked past me drink­ing from a whisky minia­ture while I waited for a night bus, put five quid in my hand and told me to keep warm. You’re the only per­son I’ve ever told this story. None of your mates will be ex­cited that you’re sin­gle again. I’m prob­a­bly your only sin­gle mate and even I’m not that ex­cited. Gen­er­ally the ex­pe­ri­ence of be­ing sin­gle at thirty-five will feel dif­fer­ent to any other time you’ve been sin­gle and that’s no bad thing. When your ex moves on, you might be­come ob­sessed with the bloke in a way that is al­most sex­ual. Don’t worry, you don’t want to fuck him, even though it will feel a bit like you do some­times. If you open up to me or one of the other boys, it will feel good in the mo­ment and then you’ll get an emo­tional hang­over the next day. You’ll wish you could take it all back. You may even feel like we’ve en­joyed see­ing you so low. Or that we feel smug be­cause we’re win­ning at some­thing and you’re los­ing. Re­member that none of us feel that. You may be­come ob­sessed with work­ing out why ex­actly she broke up with you and you are likely to go fully, fully nuts in your bid to find a sat­is­fy­ing an­swer. I can save you a lot of time by let­ting you know that you may well never work it out. And even if you did work it out, what’s the pur­pose of it? Soon enough, some girl is go­ing to be crazy about you for some un­de­fin­able rea­son and you’re not go­ing to be in­ter­ested in her for some un­de­fin­able rea­son. It’s all so ran­dom and un­fair – the peo­ple we want to be with don’t want to be with us and the peo­ple who want to be with us are not the peo­ple we want to be with. Re­ally, the thing that’s go­ing to hurt a lot is the fact that some­one doesn’t want to be with you any more. Feel­ing the ab­sence of some­one’s com­pany and the ab­sence of their love are two dif­fer­ent things. I wish I’d known that ear­lier. I wish I’d known that it isn’t any­body’s job to stay in a re­la­tion­ship they don’t want to be in just so some­one else doesn’t feel bad about them­selves. Any­way. That’s all. You’re go­ing to be okay, mate. Andy

In the course of my discussion with Ravenswood, I tried to get him to tell me how you got your scar, but he wouldn’t. He said I’d have to ask you.” Jane’s words came suddenly into his head: That’s why you haven’t shared this with your own family? That’s why you keep all of us out? Because you think it was your fault? Oh, my sweet darling, none of it was your fault. When Dom didn’t answer right away, Tristan went on, “I told Ravenswood you’d always brushed off the question with some nonsense about a fight you got into. But that isn’t true, I assume.” Dom ventured a glance at his brother and winced to see the hurt on his face. Jane had said, Every time you refuse to reveal your secrets, Dom, I assume that you find me unworthy to hear them. Apparently, that was how he’d made all of them feel. As if he were somehow too important to let them into his life. Only God could have stopped this disaster, and contrary to what you think, you aren’t God. When she’d said it, he hadn’t understood why she would accuse him of such a thing. Why she sometimes called him “Dom the Almighty.” But he understood now. By shielding his guilt from the world, he’d shut himself off from his family. From her. He’d pushed away the very people he should have embraced. Having just watched Jane retreat into fear and shut him out, he now knew precisely how painful it could feel to be on the receiving end. If he wanted to change all that, he would have to start opening his heart, letting his family--and her--see the things he was most ashamed of, most worried about. He would have to trust them to understand, to empathize, to love him in spite of everything. The only other choice was to keep closing himself up until, as she’d said at that ball last year: One day that church you’re building around yourself shall become your crypt. He didn’t want that. He took a steadying breath as he and Tristan walked up the steps to Ravenswood’s manor house. “As it happens, I did receive my scar in a fight. But it was a fight against the militia at the Peterloo Massacre.” When Tristan shot him a startled look, Dom halted at the top of the steps to face him. “If you want to hear the story, I’ll tell you all about it. Right now, if you wish.” Tristan searched his face, as if not quite sure he believed what he was hearing. “I’d like that very much.” Then he broke into a grin. “But only if we do it over a glass of Ravenswood’s brandy. That’s the best damned brandy I’ve ever tasted.” “One of the privileges of being a spymaster is that you can get your hands on the good stuff,” Dom said lightly, though his stomach churned at the thought of revealing his most humiliating secret, even to his brother. Still, as they headed inside, Tristan clapped him on the shoulder, and that reassured him. Telling Tristan about Peterloo represented a beginning of sorts, toward a closer friendship than Dom had allowed himself to have with his brother in recent years. Jane would be proud.

That summer, the month he turned twenty-nine, my brother had proposed to his girlfriend, the one he’d met four years earlier, just before coming to stay with me in Brooklyn. Nearly everyone from high school and most of my friends from college were married, or soon to be, and as for ex-boyfriends: W married in 2005; R met his soon-to-be wife in 2006 (today both couples have two children). Even the close friends I’d made in New York were “joining the vast majority,” as Neith had put it. All of us wanted to believe this wouldn’t change anything. But it did, invariably, in ways small and large. It’s a rare friendship that transcends the circumstances that forged it, and being single together in the city, no matter how powerful a bond when it’s happening, can prove pretty weak glue. Alliances had been redrawn, resources shifted and reconsolidated; new envies replaced the old. Whereas before we were all broke together, now they had husbands splitting the rent and bills, and I couldn’t shake my awareness of this difference. A treacherous, unspoken sense of inequality set in, which only six months into my new magazine job had radically reversed: I’d become the one who could afford nice restaurants while they had to channel their disposable incomes toward a shared household, and I felt their unspoken judgment just as before they’d felt mine. One newly married friend lashed out at me for never inviting her to parties. I tried to explain: Didn’t she see I was going because someone else had invited me? And that if I didn’t go, I’d be home alone, whereas she had someone to keep her company? When a dear friend said, “You know, I may be married now, but I’m still just like you! I can still do whatever I want!” I blanched. She’d been on her own so recently herself. Didn’t she remember that being single is more than just following your whims—that it also means having nobody to help you make difficult decisions, or comfort you at the end of a bad week?

You seemed close, and I just didn’t know,” Matt let out a frustrated sigh. “Rebecca and I broke up months ago. The night you told me our friendship was over, the pain of losing you overshadowed everything. I had to leave, and I had to be honest with Rebecca. I couldn’t go on pretending, when my whole world had just collapsed, because the one girl I cared about hated me.” “I

And I have blown like the wind, yes? Angry because you sleep away from me?” “No. But I know you have every right.” “So you wait for my anger, and it does not come.” He turned her in his arms and raised her chin so he could look into her eyes. “And the fear grows, until it is big like a buffalo?” “Yes,” she admitted in a quavery little voice. Hunter sighed and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. “Ah, little one, I am sure enough a stupid man. We must make talk, yes? It was my wish to make your fear small, not big. To become your good friend, not your enemy.” “Oh, Hunter, I wish we could be friends again. Remember our journey to my wooden walls? Sometimes--I think about those times, and--” She broke off and gave an exasperated groan. “I felt so close to you then, and I was so sad to say good-bye.” “And now your heart does not sing friendship for me?” “You’re my husband.” “I wish to be your friend.” He leaned back to see her face. “Can I not be both? You have stolen my heart from me, Blue Eyes.” “Oh, Hunter…” “You will be my friend again?” he asked huskily. “We will make laughter together, yes? And you will lie beside me when we sleep, with no fear, because my hand upon you is the hand of your good friend.” “I’d like to be friends again--truly I would.” “Then it will be so.” He nuzzled her ear.

A loud clunk resounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see her husband. Instead she looked straight into Red Buffalo’s black eyes. For an instant her heart stopped beating. She stared at him. He stared back. His arms were laden with firewood. One piece lay at his feet. Very slowly he hunkered down and began unloading the rest. At last Loretta found her voice. “Get out of here!” “I bring you wood,” he replied softly in English. Even Loretta knew warriors didn’t demean themselves by gathering firewood; it was woman’s work. Red Buffalo was humbling himself, making her a peace offering. She didn’t care. “I don’t want your filthy wood. Take it and leave.” He continued his task as if she hadn’t spoken. Rage bubbled up Loretta’s throat. She leaped to her feet and strode toward him. “I said get out of here! Take your damned wood with you!” Just as she reached him, Red Buffalo finished emptying his arms and rose. He was a good head shorter than Hunter, but he dwarfed Loretta. She fell back, startled, wondering if he could smell her fear. Lifting her chin, she cut him dead with her eyes. He inclined his head in a polite nod and turned to walk away. “I said take your wood with you!” she called after him. “I don’t want it!” Picking up a log, she chucked it at him. It landed on end and bounced, hitting Red Buffalo’s calf. He stopped and turned, his face expressionless as he watched her throw the remainder of the firewood in his direction. Saying nothing, he began to pick up the firewood. To Loretta’s dismay, he returned to her firepit and began unloading the logs there in a neat pile. From the corner of her eye, she could see neighbors gathering to find out what all the commotion was about. Heat scalded her cheeks. She couldn’t believe Red Buffalo was humiliating himself like this. “Don’t,” she said raggedly. “Go away, Red Buffalo! Go away!” He tipped his head back. Tears glistened on his scarred cheeks. “Hunter has cut me from his heart.” “Good! You’re an animal!” Red Buffalo winced as if she had struck him. “He has forbidden me to enter his lodge until you take my hand in friendship.” “Never!” Appalled, Loretta retreated a step. “Never, do you hear me?” Red Buffalo slowly rose, brushing his palms clean on his breeches. “He is my brother--my only brother.” “You expect me to feel sorry for you? How dare you come near me? How dare--” Her voice broke, and she spun away, running inside the lodge. Heedless of Amy, who was sitting up on her pallet, Loretta threw herself onto the bed. Knotting her fists, she stifled her sobs against the fur. Hatred coursed through her, hot, ugly, and venomous, making her shake. Take his hand in friendship? Never, not as long as she lived.

It was my wish to make your fear small, not big. To become your good friend, not your enemy.” “Oh, Hunter, I wish we could be friends again. Remember our journey to my wooden walls? Sometimes--I think about those times, and--” She broke off and gave an exasperated groan. “I felt so close to you then, and I was so sad to say good-bye.” “And now your heart does not sing friendship for me?” “You’re my husband.” “I wish to be your friend.” He leaned back to see her face. “Can I not be both? You have stolen my heart from me, Blue Eyes.

Thank you for bringing me home. My heart will sing a song of friendship when I think of you, Hunter--for always into the horizon.” He gestured toward the stallion. “You will take him. He is strong and swift. He will carry you back to Comanche land, eh?” “Oh, no! I couldn’t. He’s yours!” “He walks a new way now. You are his good friend.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I will never return to Comancheria, Hunter. Please, keep your horse.” “You keep. He is my gift to you, Blue Eyes.” Words eluded Loretta. Before she thought it through, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his in what she intended to be a quick kiss of farewell. Hunter had heard of this strange tosi tivo custom called kissing. The thought of two people pressing their open mouths together had always disgusted him. Loretta was a different matter, however. Before she could pull away, he captured her face between his hands and tipped her head back to nibble lightly at her mouth. To learn the taste of her. And to remember. As inexpert as he was, when his mouth touched hers, a wave of heat zigzagged through him, pooling like fire low in his belly. Her lips were soft and full, as sweet as warm penende, honey. She gasped, and when she did, he dipped his tongue past her teeth to taste her moistness, which was even sweeter and made him think of other sweet places he would like to taste. Hunter at last understood why the tosi tivo liked kissing. She clutched his wrists and leaned away from him. He drew back and smiled, his palms still framing her face. Her large eyes shone as blue as the sky above them, startled and wary, just as they had so many times those first few days. She was like his mother’s beadwork, beautiful on the outside, a confusing tangle on the inside. Would he never understand her? “Good-bye, Hunter.” Reluctantly he released her and watched her lead the horse down the hill. At the base of the slope she turned and looked back. Their gazes met and held. Then she turned toward home and broke into a trot, the horse trailing behind her. Hunter shook his head. Only a White Eyes would walk when she had a perfectly good horse to ride.

The image was of The Tower, the grey walls rising up high from a dark forest below. From my studies, I knew the meaning of this could signify the end of a friendship or abandonment. I turned it over to read the curling silver lettering on the back of it, adrenaline sweeping through my veins. A fallen star, an empty grave, an eternal vow. Seek he who broke it.

Goodreads is becoming my diary- When I joined Nalanda by 2018, Ritika Rajput, Myself and Urvashi punia bishnoi were almost inseparable friends for three months, wherever we go, we go together, we eat together, we fight together almost whole Nalanda could not separate our friendship until two people entered which I do not want to mention. When we were close friends Shubham das and Shalini Chauhan were seniors to us and introduced us into trekking and hiking in and around Rajgir. But Ritika did not like that I even talk with Shalini Chauhan. Once Shalini invited me to visit Banaras with her, but Ritika asked me not to go with her, I did not want to mess up within friendship so I did not go. After Myself, Ritika and Urvashi broke apart in friendships , Shalini was always there to support me without any expectations. Yeah there were few more friends or seemed like friends Rashmi Singh, Rakhi Kashyap, Deepa kundu, Kajal, Madhuri and all of them were making troubles instead of peace. Shalini was the only peace lover at that time in the campus, but second year she went abroad and then I could not see her even until now Just diary of memories

Grieving for their future, men and women often took their own lives. Others died when they could not maintain the feverish pace of the march. While the mortality rate of slaves during the Second Middle Passage never approached that of the transatlantic transfer, it surpassed the death rate of those who remained in the seaboard states. Over time some of the hazards of the long march abated, as slave traders - intent on the safe delivery of a valuable commodity - standardized their routes and relied more on flatboats, steamboats, and eventually railroads for transportation. The largest traders established 'jails,' where slaves could be warehoused, inspected, rehabilitated if necessary, and auctioned, sometimes to minor traders who served as middlemen in the expanding transcontinental enterprise. But while the rationalization of the slave trade may have reduced the slaves' mortality rate, it did nothing to mitigate the essential brutality or the profound alienation that accompanied separation from the physical and social moorings of home and family. ... [T]he Second Middle Passage was extraordinarily lonely, debilitating, and dispiriting. Capturing the mournful character of one southward marching coffle, an observer characterized it as 'a procession of men, women, and children resembling that of a funeral.' Indeed, with men and women dying on the march or being sold and resold, slaves became not merely commodified but cut off from nearly every human attachment. Surrendering to despair, many deportees had difficulties establishing friendships or even maintaining old ones. After a while, some simply resigned themselves to their fate, turned inward, and became reclusive, trying to protect a shred of humanity in a circumstance that denied it. Others exhibited a sort of manic glee, singing loudly and laughing conspicuously to compensate for the sad fate that had befallen them. Yet others fell into a deep depression and determined to march no further. Charles Ball, like others caught in the tide, 'longed to die, and escape from the bonds of my tormentors.' But many who survived the transcontinental trek formed strong bonds of friendships akin to those forged by shipmates on the voyage across the Atlantic. Indeed, the Second Middle Passage itself became a site for remaking African-American society. Mutual trust became a basis of resistance, which began almost simultaneously with the long march. Waiting for their first opportunity and calculating their chances carefully, a few slaves broke free and turned on their enslavers. Murder and mayhem made the Second Middle Passage almost as dangerous for traders as it was for slaves, which was why the men were chained tightly and guarded closely.

For Beloved's sake, try to keep track of your bonnet,' Clent broke out at last. He pulled Mosca's bonnet from a chair and dropped it on to her head. 'Running around bare-headed like a ragamuffin...' His voice trailed off. 'You'll need to find somebody else to tell you when your plans are bleedin' stupid,' Mosca said gruffly. 'Not that you ever listen to me when I do.' 'How I shall survive without the perpetual barbs of your conversation I cannot imagine,' mused Clent with a little frown, as he set Mosca's bonnet straight.

Friendship was, I think, a deep enchantment for Michael. He built up his favourite as a nonpareil. He touted you. But if you broke the spell, he would erupt with fury and then subside in a silence that just cut you out entirely.

Miranda waited. No voice spoke. No heavenly choir broke out in song. God Himself did not call her name. She frowned. Typical.

Alone, [Chamcha] all at once remembered that he and Pamela had once disagreed, as they disagreed on everything, on a short-story they’d both read, whose theme was precisely the nature of the unforgivable. Title and author eluded him, but the story came back vividly. A man and a woman had been intimate friends (never lovers) for all their adult lives. On his twenty-first birthday (they were both poor at the time) she had given him, as a joke, the most horrible, cheap glass vase she could find, in colours a garish parody of Venetian gaiety. Twenty years later, when they were both successful and greying, she visited his home and quarrelled with him over his treatment of a mutual friend. In the course of the quarrel her eye fell upon the old vase, which he still kept in pride of place on his sitting-room mantelpiece, and, without pausing in her tirade, she swept it to the floor, crushing it beyond hope of repair. He never spoke to her again; when she died, half a century later, he refused to visit her deathbed or attend her funeral, even though messengers were sent to tell him that these were her dearest wishes. ‘Tell her,’ he said to the emissaries, 'that she never knew how much I valued what she broke.’ The emissaries argued, pleaded, raged. If she had not known how much meaning he had invested in the trifle, how could she in all fairness be blamed? And had she not made countless attempts, over the years, to apologize and atone? And she was dying, for heaven’s sake; could not this ancient, childish rift be healed at last? They had lost a lifetime’s friendship; could they not even say goodbye? 'No,’ said the unforgiving man. – 'Really because of the vase? Or are you concealing some other, darker matter?’ – 'It was the vase,’ he answered, 'the vase, and nothing but.’ Pamela thought the man petty and cruel, but Chamcha had even then appreciated the curious privacy, the inexplicable inwardness of the issue. 'Nobody can judge an internal injury,’ he had said, 'by the size of the superficial wound, of the hole.

Just as I was on the verge of release, loud banging was heard at the front door, rudely jolting us back to reality. Desperately adjusting my spinning vision to normality, I saw Toby fuming in front of our nakedness. The boy was shouting obscenities at Jack and me. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back; I had enough of Toby’s erratic behavior. I commanded him to leave my flat, and our relationship terminated from that moment forward. I had no wish to see this irrational guy again. I was no longer responsible for his childishness, even if he threatened suicide. By now I had enough of his stupidity and told him that was none of my business if he decided to take his own life. Toby stomped out of my lodgings, cursing and hurling profanity at us. This offensive episode had ruptured our evening of blissful sexuality. Jack and I decided to take a hiatus. I also needed a respite from Toby’s drama. My four-year on-again-off-again relationship with the Portuguese Filipino ended that very evening. I had been holding on to that relationship, hoping I would uncover a glimmer of your positive traits in the boy. I learned that people don’t change; what changes is our perception of them. Toby slowly relinquished his suicidal absurdity over time. Our friendship remained cordial despite all that had transpired. He continued to try to reignite our passions, which to me had passed the point of no return. I never looked back after I left for Canada to pursue my postgraduate studies. That was the final chapter to my relationship with Toby. Well, Young, here we are, reminiscing about the past when we have the present and the future to enjoy each other’s company. Be well, be good, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Love you always, Andy.

Well this story is about books. About books? About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind (p.178)

But my personal favorite words of wisdom came from Gulley during the last thirty minutes of the trip, when she broke up a backseat scuffle by declaring, 'When you lick the person sitting next to you, there's a good chance you're going to get punched.' I believe the only reason that gem is missing from the book of Proverbs is because Solomon must never have traveled with three kids in the back of his chariot.

The true friend no one can try to broke them because you are truthful to each other.

So what is it you're going to show me today?" "A number of things. In fact, what I'm going to show you is part of a story. Didn't you tell me the other day that what you like to do is read?" Bea nodded, arching her eyebrows. "Well, this is a story about books." "About books?" "About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind." "You sound like the jacket blurb of a Victorian novel, Daniel." "That's probably because I work in a bookshop and I've seen too many. But this is a true story. As real as the fact that this bread they served us is at least three days old. And, like all true stories, it begins and ends in a cemetery, although not the sort of cemetery you imagine." She smiled the way children smile when they've been promised a riddle or a magic trick. "I'm all ears.

At the same time, Smith decided that the best way, indeed the only way, to guarantee Jamestown’s future was to disperse settlers. In making this decision, he was taking a page out of the Indians’ playbook since the Powhatan people routinely broke into small groups when food was scarce so that they could better forage and live off the land. Smith opted to send about sixty colonists downriver under the leadership of John Martin and George Percy (two of the men he counted as enemies). At the same time, he dispatched roughly 130 colonists up the James to a spot near the village of Powhatan, ruled by Wahunsonacock’s son, Parahunt. This group he placed under the leadership of Francis West, whose only claim to leadership was that he was the twenty-three-year-old younger brother of Thomas West, Lord De La Warre, the man who had been named “governor for life” of the Virginia colony, and who was expected to arrive in Jamestown at almost any time. These groups, Smith believed, would be able to trade for supplies and live off the land, enabling those who remained in Jamestown to survive the fast approaching winter. Smith, as well as the men who left the protection of the settlement to live off the land, were unaware that Wahunsonacock was no longer willing even to feign friendship

So, what did you tell him?” “I . . . I told him that I . . . I was fond of him, but I saw . . . no future in romance between us,” she coughed out.  “That my heart was not invested in him.” “Well, that might explain his sudden departure,” I agreed, a few things from our brief, tense conversation becoming clearer.  “You do realize that he would have quit Sevendor long ago, if he had not held out hope for your heart?” “That’s what he said!” she almost screamed.  “In fact,” I continued, apologetically, “he put himself in grave danger last summer, helping Tyndal and Rondal in Enultramar, purely in an effort to attract your attention.” “I never asked him to do that!” she fumed. “Of course you didn’t.  But that attempt . . . failed,” I said, as objectively as possible.  “I’m sure the boy wanted the assurance that his efforts were not in vain before he made any further decisions.”  I knew it was small comfort to my sobbing apprentice, but she needed to understand the truth.  “When you did not return his affections after all he has done to impress you, and you told him in certain terms that it was a fruitless endeavor, what did you expect him to do?” “No just pack up and leave! He won’t respond to me, mind-to-mind, and I have no idea where he is!” “He’s the one who figured out how to use the Alkan Ways, on his own,” I reminded her.  “I doubt he’s lingering near Sevendor.  Or even in the Riverlands.” “So where did he go?  I need to talk to him!” “And say what?” I asked.  “That you’ve changed your mind?  That you’ve found love in your heart in his absence that his presence could not produce?” I suggested. “That he doesn’t have to run away from me, just because I’m not in love with him!” “Clearly, he feels differently about that,” I pointed out.  “Asking a man with a broken heart to be proximate to the one who broke it . . . that seems a cruel request, Dara.” “But I didn’t mean to break his heart!  Now everyone thinks I drove him away!  Banamor is pissed with me, Sire Cei isn’t happy that he’s lost one of his best aides, and the enchanters in town all hate me!  Nattia isn’t even speaking to me!  She thinks I was unfair to him!” “You may not have meant to do it, but it is done.  Gareth is a very, very smart man, Dara.  He’s one of the most intuitive thaumaturges I know, and a brilliant enchanter.  He’s as determined as Azar when it comes to achieving what he wants.  And when he learns that what he wants he cannot have, he's smart enough to know that lingering in your shadow, pining for what cannot be, is a torture he cannot bear.” “But I hold his friendship in the highest esteem!” she protested.  “He was instrumental in the hawk project!  He’s been a constant help to me, and come to my aid faithfully!” “Did you think he did that out of the goodness of his heart?” I felt compelled to ask.  “Oh, he’s a wholesome and worthy lad, don’t mistake me.  But if you don’t return his affections, then continuing to be at your call is . . . well, it’s humiliating, Dara.  Especially when you have other suitors you hold in more favor, nearby.

It was my wish to make your fear small, not big. To become your good friend, not your enemy.” “Oh, Hunter, I wish we could be friends again. Remember our journey to my wooden walls? Sometimes--I think about those times, and--” She broke off and gave an exasperated groan. “I felt so close to you then, and I was so sad to say good-bye.” “And now your heart does not sing friendship for me?” “You’re my husband.” “I wish to be your friend.” He leaned back to see her face. “Can I not be both? You have stolen my heart from me, Blue Eyes.” “Oh, Hunter…” “You will be my friend again?” he asked huskily. “We will make laughter together, yes? And you will lie beside me when we sleep, with no fear, because my hand upon you is the hand of your good friend.” “I’d like to be friends again--truly I would.” “Then it will be so.” He nuzzled her ear. “But Hunter, don’t you see? We’re married.” “Ah, yes, married.” Hunter’s mind circled the word, trying to imagine what images it conjured for her. “And good friends, yes? Trust. This last time. My hand upon you has brought pain?” “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “I have beaten you?” “No.” She pressed closer to him and encircled his neck with her arms. “Oh, Hunter, what must you think of me?” “I think there is big fear inside you.

To: James Grayson Dec 9 Fuck off, Grayson. And don’t think I’ve forgotten what we were talking about. So let me get it straight: Yesterday Ryan broke up with his girlfriend after you told him it wasn’t working and you wanted to end your epic “friendship.” Ryan told you in no uncertain terms there could never be anything between you, because he was straighter than an arrow. Then you two got drunk and you sucked him off. Is that right? From: James Grayson To: Luke Whitford Dec 9 Pretty much. And stop putting our friendship into quotes. From: Luke Whitford To: James Grayson Dec 9 I’ll stop putting it into quotes when your “friendship” starts being a friendship. Usually a man doesn’t fucking break up with the woman he loves for his best friend, Jimmy. Anyway, what happened after the blowjob? From: James Grayson To: Luke Whitford Dec 9 Nothing. From: Luke Whitford To: James Grayson Dec 9 Nothing? From: James Grayson To: Luke Whitford Dec 9 We were drunk. I passed out. When I woke up this morning, he was still out. I went home. From: Luke Whitford To: James Grayson Dec 9 You haven’t talked today at all? From: James Grayson To: Luke Whitford Dec 9 No. From: Luke Whitford To: James Grayson Dec 9 I can feel the angst from here.

You broke my heart, Zed. Is that what you want to hear from me? You're the only person to ever break my heart. But I sucked it up and dealt with it. You offered me friendship and I took it. You're my best friend and nothing more." "Jesus, Dare, that was six years ago, and you were engaged to my best friend! What the fuck was I supposed to do? I didn't know. I had no idea what he was—" He broke off scrubbing a hand over his face. "I thought I was doing the right thing.

My son trusted you. He loved you. You gave him a family when he couldn’t claim one at home,” his voice cracked, and I could sense Tory’s discomfort. She hadn’t been as close to Diego as Darcy had, but I knew their friendship had been real enough, even if it had been a little fraught at times. “And I think he would have wanted me to tell you this. He would have wanted me to trust you too.” “Trust me with what?” Tory asked, and I leaned closer as I felt the importance of this revelation rising in the room. “I was born in a secluded part of the kingdom, hidden from all outsiders through years of careful and diligent work. We broke our allegiance with others of our kind when we decided to resist the call of la Princesa de las Sombras. We saw through the lies she was spinning and came to understand the taint she had placed upon the shadows we had once loved and wielded so dearly. So we left them, six entire tribes of Nymphs left and hid ourselves away from those who wished to continue down her path. We worked to cleanse a small portion of the shadows of her vile corruption so that we could use them without her input, so that we wouldn’t be polluted by her desires and become maddened with the need to steal magic from Fae. There are even Fae who live among us peacefully. They have married our kind and live full lives with us, giving up their power only when death comes calling at their door and even then, they only do so if they wish it.

Secure friends make you feel safe. You’re scared to tell someone you experience bouts of depression, or broke ties with your great-aunt, or put ketchup on your eggs, and your secure friends make you feel loved regardless. Researchers found that secure people report being more accepting of others and better listeners. In chapter 1, we discussed how friends can make us feel human again when we experience shame. Secure friends do this better than anyone else. They provide us with friendships that heal.

Ibrahim had managed to save his life and find refuge with Ramaraya, and after the death of Jamsheed, Ibrahim gained the throne with help of Ramaraya. They maintained a friendly relationship for over a decade. Sadly, it was a friendship that was not destined to last. Ibrahim held genuine love and respect towards his patron. Unfortunately, Ramaraya, like Ali, cared only for Samrajya. When some of Ibrahim’s disgruntled nobles revolted and invited Ramaraya to take control of important border forts, Ramaraya had jumped at the chance. Ibrahim managed to crush the rebellion before Samrajya armies arrived, but his belief in his friend and patron was shattered. Then Ramaraya had taken the side of Ali in the last war against Hussain Nizam Shah and Ibrahim Qutb Shah, which finally broke the last vestiges of affection that he held for Ramaraya. Now he was here to take revenge on the man who had betrayed him.

On the morning of February 20, 1962, Glenn climbed into his space capsule for a twelfth attempted launch. This time, there were no setbacks, no delays, no cancelations. At 8:48 a.m. the Atlas rocket broke free from the ground pad and raced up into the atmosphere, leaving a trail of smoke and fire.

Only develop friendships with people you admire. I admired people who broke the rules when the rules made no sense!

The real bond, however, that connects both Elvis, the rock-and-roll king, and Ted, the ribs king, is their sense of gratitude and giving back. Many modern performers command the headlines by doing things that are stupid and selfish. Elvis was generous to a fault. At his death, he was nearly broke after having sent Cadillac’s to random strangers. Elvis understood that he needed to give back to a world that had given him great riches. Since my father was close to Ted, I witnessed numerous instances where Ted helped people anonymously. He also participated in major Cincinnati charities, such as the Hope House. Ted developed his close friendship with Bob Hope when they served on the board of that charity. Ted told The Cincinnati Enquirer, “I’m a giver,” and it was an accurate self-assessment. Both kings were an important part of my growing years. As I get older and think about how to run my businesses, I realize that both kings gave me models and ideals to strive for.

But she broke down when she started losing her hair. “I know this seems ridiculous,” she said. “But it’s the only thing I can focus on. The rest is too huge.

During the fight Geary’s teamsters became scared, and had deserted their teams, and the mules, stampeded by the sound of battle raging around them, had broken loose from their wagons and run away. Fortunately for their reputation and the safety of the command, they started toward the enemy, and with heads down and tails up, with trace-chains rattling and whiffletrees snapping over the stumps of trees, they rushed pell-mell upon Longstreet’s bewildered men. Believing it to be an impetuous charge of cavalry, his line broke and fled. The quartermaster in charge of the animals, not willing to see such distinguished services go unrewarded, sent in the following communication: “I request that the mules, for their gallantry in action, may have conferred upon them the brevet rank [an honorary promotion] of horses.” Brevets in the army were being pretty freely bestowed at the time, and when this recommendation was reported to General Grant he laughed heartily at the suggestion.

What did you do, Jess?” Keaton said. I wanted to give her the same lie that I had used from day one—nothing had happened and everything was fine—but the words wouldn’t form. Speaking would damn me as easily as silence. Keaton approached me, crouching in front of me until I was forced to look into her big blue eyes. I had a moment where I hated her for doing this. Then, it dissolved away. I used to think my hate made me strong. For so long, I had used it as a shield to distance myself, to keep the world at bay, because things were easier that way. Or so it seemed. I hadn’t understood that in reality, my hate made me ugly, it made me weak. Seeing the soul inside of my best friend told me just how much that hate had cost me. She reached forward to hug me, and I broke down into tears.

The smell of bacon sizzling and the sound of eggs hitting hot pans were drowned out by the sonorous diner conversations happening all over the restaurant. Some were laughing at their own jokes in one of the center tables. A couple wordlessly broke up, using the diner napkins to dry their tears, sitting in one of the red with white upside down triangle detailed booths. There were also some teenagers arguing about the pronunciation of gif on the counter table, sitting on the red high chairs.

Ash, you were my girl for years. But before that, we were friends. The best of friends. I should have never let one snag in the road cause me to turn on you like I did. It was wrong. You took all the blame for something that wasn’t entirely your fault. It was Beau’s and it was mine.” “Yours? How?” “I knew Beau loved you. I’d seen the way he looked at you. I also knew you loved him more than you loved me. You two had a secret bond I didn’t get to be a part of. I was jealous. Beau was my cousin and you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. I wanted you for myself. So I asked you out, never once going to Beau first. Never once asking him how he felt about it. You accepted, and just like magic I broke up the bond you two shared. You guys never talked anymore. There were no more late-night roof talks and no more bailing y’all out of trouble. Beau was my cousin and you were my girlfriend. It was as if your friendship had never been. I was selfish and ignored the guilt until it went away. Only the times I saw him watching you with that pained, needy expression did the guilt stir in my gut. It was mixed with fear. Fear you’d see that I’d done and go to him. Fear I’d lose you.” I reached down and ran my hand over his hair. “I loved you, too. I wanted to be good enough for you. I wanted to be the good girl you deserved.” “Ash, you were perfect just the way you were. I was the one who let you change. I liked the change. It’s one of the many reasons I feared I’d lose you. Deep down I knew one day that free spirit you’d quenched would fight to be released. It happened. And the fact it happened with Beau doesn’t surprise me in the least.” “I’m sorry, Sawyer. I never meant to hurt you. I made a mess of things. You aren’t going to have to watch Beau and me together. I’m stepping out of both of your lives. You can get back what was lost.” Sawyer reached up and grabbed my hand. “Don’t do that, Ash. He needs you.” “No, it’s what he wants too. Today he hardly acknowledged me. He only spoke to me when he was making a point to everyone else that I was to be left alone.” Sawyer let out a sad laugh. “He won’t last long. He’s never been able to ignore you. Not even when he knew I was watching him. Right now he’s dealing with a lot. And he’s dealing with it alone. Don’t push him away.” I jumped down from the branch and hugged Sawyer. “Thank you. Your acceptance means the world to me. But right now he needs you. You’re his brother. I’ll just be hindrance to you two dealing with everything.” Sawyer reached out and twirled a strand of my hair around his finger. “Even if I was wrong to take you without a thought to Beau’s feelings, I can’t make myself regret it. I’ve had three amazing years with you, Ash.” I didn’t know what to say. I’d had good times too, but I did regret choosing the wrong Vincent boy. He gave me one last sad smile, then dropped my hair and walked away.

She looked at me tiredly. “I bet you wish you would have kicked the tires before falling for this hot mess.” She smiled weakly. “Aren’t you glad I saved you from yourself?” I shook my head. “No, that’s not how that works, Kristen. Love is for better or worse. It’s always and no matter what. The no-matter-what just happened first for us.” Her eyes teared up and she pressed her lips together. “I miss you.” My throat got tight. “Then be with me, Kristen. Right now. We can move in together, today. Sleep in the same bed. Just say okay. That’s all you have to say. Just say okay.” I wanted it so badly my heart felt like it was screaming. I wanted to shake her, kidnap her and hold her hostage until she stopped this crap. But she shook her head. “No.” I let go of her hand and leaned away from her against the door, my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “You’re killing both of us.” “One day—” “Stop talking to me about one day.” I turned to her. “I’m never going to feel differently about this.” She waited a beat. “Neither am I.” We sat in silence for a moment, and I closed my eyes. I felt her move across the seat, and then her body was pressed against my side. I wrapped an arm around her and let her tuck her head under my chin. The feel of her was therapeutic. I think it was for both of us. A warm compress for my soul. I’d never had all of her at once. I’d only ever gotten pieces. Her friendship without her body. Her body without her love. And now her love without any of the rest of it. But even with what little fragments I’d had, it was enough to tell me I would never stop chasing all of her. Never. Not if I lived to be a hundred. She was it. She just was. “Kristen, you’re the woman I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with,” I whispered. “I know it in my fucking soul.” She sniffed. “I know it too, Josh. But that was before.” “Before what?” I wrapped my arms around her tighter, tears pricking my eyes. “Before I broke inside. Before my body made me wrong for you. Sometimes soul mates don’t end up together, Josh. They marry other people. They never meet. Or one of them dies.” I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the lump in my throat get bigger. Just to have her admit it, to have her acknowledge that’s what we were to each other, was the most validating thing she’d ever given me.

Stephanie broke down for a while, but she rallied and made it shamefacedly through the University of Southern California, then graduate school, then drifted into local politics with a growing conviction that friendship was overrated and that relationships were worth it only if they could be exploited for personal advancement. Some of her mother’s DNA stuck, however, and along with serial misanthropy, Stephanie progressively discovered she liked sex, a lot, the kind with no commitment. She had to control herself as her political career blossomed, but it was always there, right beneath the surface. The

The one where I was insanely jealous and didn't handle it very well," he told her quietly, not taking his eyes off the ground. Kira forced herself to shut up so he could let whatever he was holding inside, out. "The truth is, I know I've been a little mean sometimes, but I told myself it was justified. You and Tristan were wrong for each other, and it was only a matter of time before you broke up. I was just doing my part to move the process along." "But?" Kira said, making him continue. "But, I realize now that it's something you need to see on your own." "And why do you care so much?" Kira asked. They had avoided this conversation for so long, it was inevitable they would need to talk about it. Maybe in the woods, alone, waiting to charge a house full of powerful vampires wasn't the ideal time, but it was all the two of them had. There was no going back now. "Because you're my best friend." He shrugged, still not looking at her. Kira watched him, watched as he finally met her gaze. His fiery eyes were so like her own, but she didn't recognize them now, not when they were so filled with hope and pain. "Because I'm in love with you," he finally said, letting the words float up and fill the empty space of the forest, making it feel both cramped and vast at the same time. There it was. The six words that Kira had been dreading since graduation. The six words that could never be taken back. The six words that would change their friendship forever. "I love you too," Kira said, hating the pity in her voice. "But you're not in love with me," Luke finished the sentence for her, visibly deflated.

That’s what you say. You don’t say “we broke up” when a friendship ends. You don’t say “we’re estranged” if it’s not a family member. You say you “lost touch,” as if you carelessly misplaced your friend, as if it’s not one of your life’s greatest failures and regrets.