Confession To My Crush Quotes

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For a long time,’ Nico said, ‘I had a crush on you. I just wanted you to know.’ Percy looked at Nico. Then at Annabeth, as if to check that he’d heard correctly. Then back at Nico. ‘You –’ ‘Yeah,’ Nico said. ‘You’re a great person. But I’m over that. I’m happy for you guys.’ ‘You … so you mean –’ ‘Right.’ Annabeth’s grey eyes started to sparkle. She gave Nico a sideways smile. ‘Wait,’ Percy said. ‘So you mean –’ ‘Right,’ Nico said again. ‘But it’s cool. We’re cool. I mean, I see now … you’re cute, but you’re not my type.’ ‘I’m not your type … Wait. So –’ ‘See you around, Percy,’ Nico said.
Rick Riordan (The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus, #5))
I need to capture my sprite with trembling hands. Except I could crush her. Wonder how many small things of beauty - flowers, seashells, dragonflies - have met such a demise. Wonder how much fragile love has collapsed beneath the weight of confession.
Ellen Hopkins (Fallout (Crank, #3))
I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything, without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something, that he didn't love me, that I wanted to be possessed, thrown over, that I wanted to have the wounds nailed shut. I want to tell you this story without having to be in it: Max in the wrong clothes. Max at the party, drunk again. Max in the kitchen, in refrigerator Ught, his hands around the neck of a beer. Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more. I'm surprised that I say it with feeling. There's a thing in my stomach about this. A simple thing. The last rung.
Richard Siken (Crush)
I grin. “Good night, OMG.” He slowly shakes his head back and forth while his eyes narrow playfully. “You’re lucky I like you, Auburn Mason Reed.” With that, he closes the door. “Oh my God,” I whisper. I think I might have a crush on that boy.
Colleen Hoover (Confess)
It's my big secret.
Rick Riordan (The House of Hades (The Heroes of Olympus, #4))
No one ever kissed me like you did. No one ever touched me like you did. No one—” With a choked sound of defeat, I crushed my mouth to hers. I had to shut her up. Her words were slaying me. Her tears were like poison. I died a hundred deaths from each aching confession. And I needed her to stop before I ceased to exist.
Linda Kage (Worth It (Forbidden Men, #6))
how shall I get through the months or years of my future life, in company with that man -- my greatest enemy -- for none could injure me as he has done? Oh! when I think how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage, and how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation --crushed my hopes, destroyed my youth's best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless misery -- as far as man can do it -- it is not enough to say that I no longer love my husband -- I HATE him! The word stares me in the face like a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him -- I hate him!
Anne Brontë (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall)
I'm having a bad day," I told him. My little brother hated me, my human-alien personal security guard confessed he doesn't know compassion from compost, and now my old high school crush informs me he's embarking on a suicide mission to rescue two missing and probably dead people. PLUS I wanted a sandwich that I could never have. -Cassie
Rick Yancey
Artoo, I'm switching back to regular handwriting. Calligraphy is hard, and I didn't bring my good pens. Or I need more practice. Right now you're sitting across from me, probably writing HAGS 30 times in a row. I know a little bit of a lot of languages, but even so, I struggle to put this into words. Okay. I'm just going to do it. First of all, I need you to know I'm not putting this out there with any hope of reciprocation. This is something I have to get off my chest (cliché, sorry) before we go our separate ways (cliché). It's the last day of school, and therefore my last chance. "Crush" is too weak a word to describe how I feel. It doesn't do you justice, but maybe it works for me. I am the one who is crushed. I'm crushed that we have only ever regarded each other as enemies. I'm crushed when the day ends and I haven't said anything to you that isn't coated in five layers of sarcasm. I'm crushed, concluding this year without having known that you like melancholy music or eat cream cheese straight from the tub in the middle of the night or play with your bangs when you're nervous, as though you're worried they look bad. (They never do.) You're ambitious, clever, interesting, and beautiful. I put "beautiful" last because for some reason, I have a feeling you'd roll your eyes if I wrote it first. But you are. You're beautiful and adorable and so fucking charming. And you have this energy that radiates off you, a shimmering optimism I wish I could borrow for myself sometimes. You're looking at me like you can't believe I'm not done yet, so let me wrap this up before I turn it into a five-paragraph essay. But if this were an essay, here's the thesis statement: I'm in love with you, Rowan Roth. Please don't make too much fun of me at graduation? Yours, Neil P. McNair
Rachel Lynn Solomon (Today Tonight Tomorrow (Rowan & Neil, #1))
I got the feeling that if I moved the frames to the side, I'd see the artists watching me, as though through a two-way mirror, cracking their arthritic knuckles and rubbing their stubbled chins, wondering what I was wondering about them, if I saw their brilliance, or if their lives had been pointless, if only God could judge them after all. Did they want more? Was there more genius to be wrung out of the turpentine rags at their feet? Could they have painted better? Could they have painted more generously? More clearly? Could they have dropped more fruit from their windows? Did they know that glory was mundane? Did they wish they'd crushed those withered grapes between their fingers and spent their days walking through fields of grass or being in love or confessing their delusions to a priest or starving like the hungry souls they were, begging for alms in the city square with some honesty for once? Maybe they'd lived wrongly. (...) Or maybe not. Maybe, in the morning, they were aloof and happy to distract themselves with their brushes and oils, to mix their colors and smoke their pipes and go back to their fresh still lives without having to swat away any more flies.
Ottessa Moshfegh (My Year of Rest and Relaxation)
They thought I was troubled after noticing the cut marks I'd made on my arms and legs, a habit I'd picked up to impress cute girls in school. I'd carve a crush's name into my shoulder, or make slashes on my forearm to win their attention. The pain was intense, but it paid off.
Laura Jane Grace (Tranny: Confessions of Punk Rock's Most Infamous Anarchist Sellout)
I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything, without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something, that he didn't love me, that I wanted to be thrown over, possessed. I want to tell you this story without having to be in it: Max in the wrong clothes. Max at the party, drunk again. Max in the kitchen, in refrigerator light, his hands around the neck of a beer. Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more. I'm surprised that I say it with feeling. There's a thing in my stomach about this. A simple thing. The last rung.
Richard Siken (Crush)
Every time Valentine’s Day came around, I’d hold out the stupid hope that maybe there’d be some guy who had a secret crush on me and would buy me a rose to finally declare his love. Then the day would come, and of course, nobody bought me a rose, and I’d end up getting really depressed, looking at all the pretty girls in my homeroom with their roses.
Alice Wasser (Confessions of an Ugly Girl (Ugly Girl Series #1))
He’d recently confessed to Booker that the great Sphere had led him to the edges of sanity. “I have found understanding of the world that has crushed my intellect, and knowledge that has erased my intelligence.” The Eysen-Sphere was much more than the computer they first believed it to be. It was indeed the most powerful object that had been discovered in the Solar System.
Brandt Legg (Cosega Sphere)
I think I’m drowning. But not into her blue eyes like I happily would. No, I’m sinking into the floor, letting it swallow me whole. I can hardly breathe under the crushing weight of Kitt’s words. My ears ring. My heart pounds. The command echoes in my skull, though I have no idea why he would want this. Why he would want her. Not now. Not after everything. I’m surrounded by the entire court and the only thing I can focus on is not falling to my knees beside her. Marriage. Marriage to someone who isn’t me. Marriage to someone I will spend the rest of my life serving. I’ll lose her forever while being forced to watch. I can’t even look at her. I’m a coward, morphing back into the monster I was when she found me. My vision is blurry, eyes fixed on the dais above. This is how I lose her. Not by death but by something just as binding. The command rings in my head. And to think I wasted so much time trying to hate her. To think I won’t have enough time to love her. My heart aches because every beat belongs to her. And I may never get to tell her that. Is this how she will remember me? Escorting her to this fate? Bound by duty alone? I could laugh. I could cry. I could burn this palace to the ground like I did her house, just for a chance to confess my love before the flames consumed me. Because I am bound to her very being. Hers until the day she realizes I don’t deserve to be. The king’s eyes are on me while mine are somewhere far away. Somewhere with her. A place where I am nothing and no one and happy being powerless, so long as she is beside me. My gaze falls from the fantasy, finding its way to her. This is not how I will remember us. Not as enemies or traitors or monsters, but as two people dancing in the dark, swaying beneath the stars. Her feet atop mine, her head on the heart that beats only for her. Just Pae and Kai. I step away from her kneeling form, masking every emotion with a blank stare. I’m leaving her to face him. Her future husband. I melt into the crowd, standing at a safe enough distance to prevent myself from stealing her away. This will be the rest of my life. Forced to love her from a distance. Mourn the loss of her each day. But I will. I will smother every emotion but the one that belongs to her. I will love her until I am incapable of the feeling. She is the torture I may not survive. Eagerly, she is my undoing. Her gaze lifts, meeting eyes that are not my own. Eyes of the man who gets to have her—if she allows it. She was supposed to be my forever. Now I’ll watch her become someone else’s. Because the beast doesn’t get the beauty.
Lauren Roberts, Reckless
For a while I thought I was the dragon. I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was the princess, cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle, young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with confidence but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess, while I'm out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire, and getting stabbed to death. Okay, so I'm the dragon. Big deal. You still get to be the hero.
Richard Siken (Crush)
want to tell you this story without having to confess anything, without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something, that he didn't love me, that I wanted to be possessed, thrown over, that I wanted to have the wounds nailed shut. I want to tell you this story without having to be in it: Max in the wrong clothes. Max at the party, drunk again. Max in the kitchen, in refrigerator Ught, his hands around the neck of a beer. Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more. I'm surprised that I say it with feeling. There's a thing in my stomach about this. A simple thing. The last rung.
Richard Siken (Crush)
First of all,” he said through gritted teeth, “I don’t know how to react to you. You are infuriating and self-righteous and you get under my skin. Secondly, there have never been any other women—there was never anyone before you—and much to my dismay you have provoked me so much that you’ve wormed your way into my dreams. You are the only one who plagues them. And one last thing”—his voice lowered into a growl—“the next time I kiss you, I want to remember it.” Raindrops dotted his cheek as he bent down. Lightning streaked the sky as he pulled her to him. The Eversea’s dark waves slammed against the shore as he crushed his lips to hers.
Thea Guanzon (A Monsoon Rising (The Hurricane Wars, #2))
You gutted me, baby,” I croak in confession as my chest caves. “But I can’t say I don’t deserve it . . .” I falter, grunting through the pain consuming me. “You thrive on love, and I . . . we fucking starved your heart . . . we just left you here.” Crushed by the weight of that truth, I lift her hand and thread my fingers through hers. “We both know I didn’t deserve you . . . but you made me feel like I did . . . even if I wouldn’t fucking hold your hand,” I admit. “I was going to,” I sniff. “I was going to try to be that guy. I was that guy. I just . . .” I slide my thumb along hers, the burn unbearable. “I would give fucking anything for one more day. Just one.
Kate Stewart (One Last Rainy Day (Ravenhood Legacy #1))
Ah! Gentle, gracious Dove, And art thou grieved in me, That sinners should restrain thy love, And say, “It is not free: It is not free for all: The most, thou passest by, And mockest with a fruitless call Whom thou hast doomed to die.” They think thee not sincere In giving each his day, “ Thou only draw’st the sinner near To cast him quite away, To aggravate his sin, His sure damnation seal: Thou show’st him heaven, and say’st, go in And thrusts him into hell.” O HORRIBLE DECREE Worthy of whence it came! Forgive their hellish blasphemy Who charge it on the Lamb: Whose pity him inclined To leave his throne above, The friend, and Saviour of mankind, The God of grace, and love. O gracious, loving Lord, I feel thy bowels yearn; For those who slight the gospel word I share in thy concern: How art thou grieved to be By ransomed worms withstood! How dost thou bleed afresh to see Them trample on thy blood! To limit thee they dare, Blaspheme thee to thy face, Deny their fellow-worms a share In thy redeeming grace: All for their own they take, Thy righteousness engross, Of none effect to most they make The merits of thy cross. Sinners, abhor the fiend: His other gospel hear— “The God of truth did not intend The thing his words declare, He offers grace to all, Which most cannot embrace, Mocked with an ineffectual call And insufficient grace. “The righteous God consigned Them over to their doom, And sent the Saviour of mankind To damn them from the womb; To damn for falling short, “Of what they could not do, For not believing the report Of that which was not true. “The God of love passed by The most of those that fell, Ordained poor reprobates to die, And forced them into hell.” “He did not do the deed” (Some have more mildly raved) “He did not damn them—but decreed They never should be saved. “He did not them bereave Of life, or stop their breath, His grace he only would not give, And starved their souls to death.” Satanic sophistry! But still, all-gracious God, They charge the sinner’s death on thee, Who bought’st him with thy blood. They think with shrieks and cries To please the Lord of hosts, And offer thee, in sacrifice Millions of slaughtered ghosts: With newborn babes they fill The dire infernal shade, “For such,” they say, “was thy great will, Before the world was made.” How long, O God, how long Shall Satan’s rage proceed! Wilt thou not soon avenge the wrong, And crush the serpent’s head? Surely thou shalt at last Bruise him beneath our feet: The devil and his doctrine cast Into the burning pit. Arise, O God, arise, Thy glorious truth maintain, Hold forth the bloody sacrifice, For every sinner slain! Defend thy mercy’s cause, Thy grace divinely free, Lift up the standard of thy cross, Draw all men unto thee. O vindicate thy grace, Which every soul may prove, Us in thy arms of love embrace, Of everlasting love. Give the pure gospel word, Thy preachers multiply, Let all confess their common Lord, And dare for him to die. My life I here present, My heart’s last drop of blood, O let it all be freely spent In proof that thou art good, Art good to all that breathe, Who all may pardon have: Thou willest not the sinner’s death, But all the world wouldst save. O take me at my word, But arm me with thy power, Then call me forth to suffer, Lord, To meet the fiery hour: In death will I proclaim That all may hear thy call, And clap my hands amidst the flame, And shout,—HE DIED FOR ALL
Charles Wesley
think I’m drowning. But not into her blue eyes like I happily would. No, I’m sinking into the oor, letting it swallow me whole. I can hardly breathe under the crushing weight of Kitt’s words. My ears ring. My heart pounds. The command echoes in my skull, though I have no idea why he would want this. Why he would want her. Not now. Not after everything. And yet, I still want her after everything. I’m surrounded by the entire court and the only thing I can focus on is not falling to my knees beside her. Marriage. Marriage to someone who isn’t me. Marriage to someone I will spend the rest of my life serving. I’ll lose her forever while being forced to watch. I can’t even look at her. I’m a coward, morphing back into the monster I was when she found me. My vision is blurry, eyes xed on the dais above. This is how I lose her. Not by death but by something just as binding. The command rings in my head. And to think I wasted so much time trying to hate her. To think I won’t have enough time to love her. My heart aches because every beat belongs to her. And I may never get to tell her that. Is this how she will remember me? Escorting her to this fate? Bound by duty alone? I could laugh. I could cry. I could burn this palace to the ground like I did her house, just for a chance to confess my love before the ames consumed me. Because I am bound to her very being. Hers until the day she realizes I don’t deserve to be. The king’s eyes are on me while mine are somewhere far away. Somewhere with her. A place where I am nothing and no one and happy being powerless, so long as she is beside me. My gaze falls from the fantasy, nding its way to her. This is not how I will remember us. Not as enemies or traitors or monsters, but as two people dancing in the dark, swaying beneath the stars. Her feet atop mine, her head on the heart that beats only for her. Just Pae and Kai. I step away from her kneeling form, masking every emotion with a blank stare. I’m leaving her to face him. Her future husband. I melt into the crowd, standing at a safe enough distance to prevent myself from stealing her away. This will be the rest of my life. Forced to love her from a distance. Mourn the loss of her each day. But I will. I will smother every emotion but the one that belongs to her. I will love her until I am incapable of the feeling. She is the torture I may not survive. Eagerly, she is my undoing. Her gaze lifts, meeting eyes that are not my own. Eyes of the man who gets to have her—if she allows it. She was supposed to be my forever. Now I’ll watch her become someone else’s. Because the beast doesn’t get the beauty.
Lauren Roberts, Reckless
…Wondering what I was wondering about them, if I saw their brilliance, or if their lives had been pointless, if only God could judge them after all. Did they want more? Was there more genius to be wrung out of the turpentine rags at their feet? Could they have painted better? Could they have painted more generously? More clearly? Could they have dropped more fruit from their windows? Did they know that glory was mundane? Did they wish they’d crushed those withered grapes between their fingers and spent their days walking through fields of grass or being in love or confessing their delusions to a priest or starving like the hungry souls they were, begging for alms in the city square with some honesty for once? Maybe they’d lived wrongly. Their greatness might have poisoned them. Did they wonder about things like that? Maybe they couldn’t sleep at night. Were they plagued by nightmares? Maybe they understood, in fact, that beauty and meaning had nothing to do with one another.
Ottessa Moshfegh (My Year of Rest and Relaxation)
This, to me, is the point of the confession and absolution in the liturgy. When I first experienced it—the part where everyone in church stands up and says what bad people they are, and the pastor, from the distance of the chancel and the purity of her white robe says, “God forgives you”—I thought it was hogwash. Why should I care if someone says to me that some God I may or may not really believe in has erased the check marks against me for things I may or may not even think are so-called sins? This obviously is the problem with religion for so many: It makes you feel bad enough that you will need the religion to help you feel good again. But eventually the confession and absolution liturgy came to mean everything to me. It gradually began to feel like a moment when truth was spoken, perhaps for the only time all week, and it would crush me and then put me back together. One Sunday in 2006, after the last night I spent at Candace’s house, I stood in the blue-carpeted sanctuary at my husband’s church and for the first time I really paid attention to the confession. We have sinned by what we have done and by what we have left
Nadia Bolz-Weber (Pastrix: The Cranky, Beautiful Faith of a Sinner & Saint)
But how am I to get over the ten or twelve days that must yet elapse before they go? Yet why so long for their departure? When they are gone how shall I get through the months or years of my future life, in company with that man—my greatest enemy—for none could injure me as he has done? Oh! when I think how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage; and how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation—crushed my hopes, destroyed my youth's best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless misery—as far as man can do it—it is not enough to say that I no longer love my husband—I hate him! The word stares me in the face like a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him—I hate him!—But God have mercy on his miserable soul!—and make him see and feel his guilt—I ask no other vengeance! if he could but fully know and truly feel my wrongs, I should be well avenged; and I could freely pardon all; but he is so lost, so hardened in his heartless depravity that, in this life, I believe he never will.
Anne Brontë (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall)
We were already in school by then. Your friends had made fun of me. I was twelve. My higher brain functions weren’t fully developed. I was so in love with you.” The cold had woven its way into the fabric of my jeans and settled like a coating of ice in the folds of my jacket. Now I warmed again, puzzling through Hunter’s words. I didn’t know whether to take him seriously. “Your love for me was a symptom that your brain hadn’t developed, or-“ “Shut up.” He turned to face me. “I am drunk and I am trying to confess, so just let me do it, okay? I had fallen in love with you over the summer. Then this horrible thing happened to you and you stopped talking t me. I thought you blamed me, or my dad. Which he deserved.” “No,” I protested. “It was an acc-“ “I took it as a rejection.” He put his hand on my knee and looked me straight in the eyes. “It’s taken me all this time to figure that out. But I regretted it every day. And I’m truly sorry.” He sat back against the bench and faced the stars. The place where his hand had rested on my knee felt colder than ever. “I’m sorry, too,” I said, “so we’re even. I didn’t visit you in the hospital when you got crushed by a horse. For much the same reasons regarding love and rejection and being young.
Jennifer Echols (Love Story)
I love the commanding tone of your voice and how it falls in gentle rhythms. I love how you dance like the waves and pull me in with your tide. You're every ounce as beautiful as the sea and every bit as wild. You have no idea the extent how vibrantly you glow, but perhaps you're learning. And I love that. I love you." A flutter in my chest multiplies, blooming and blooming and blooming, like the kaleidoscope in my dream. Only this time, it doesn't shatter. It holds me there in that rose-gold glow. I burst, but in a way that's expansive, not destructive. I leap forward, pressing my lips to his, obliterated by the dew-damp softness. His eyes widen as he pulls away. I gape at him, flushed. "I---I'm sorry." He hesitates, but then he pounces, drawing me towards his embrace and crushing my open mouth. It happens so fast. He grabs me by the thighs, welling up my skirt as he carries me out of the water. My fingers curl through his hair, and novas explode as he slips his tongue onto mine. He holds me tighter, kissing me over and over again like repeating a melody. It's as natural as language, as wild as the roaring sea. We fall to the ground, and a bed of flowers blossoms beneath us, pale pink and soft. The velvet petals tangle in my hair as he presses into me--- skin on skin, blooming with wild heat. We fold into each other, our arms coiling like serpents, my fingers tracing his body. He pulls away for just a moment, but only to study me like the rarest opal, admiring my every color and curve before kissing my lips--- sweet and soft and slow. We repeat the motions in a ritual that's only our own. I try to catch my thoughts, but they're all tangled up . Though, there's one thing I know for sure. Through my unsteady breathing, I whisper, "I love you, too." Despite what the Devil thinks, I am capable of love, and I won't let him win, not now. Damien and I collapse into the damp petals, surrendering to the night.
Kiana Krystle (Dance of the Starlit Sea)
There are things I can confess only after swallowing a bottle of ink. How i crushed a moth between my palms before it rushed to the fireplace. These hands that are used to killing things midflight. Like my mother tongue. Before I can roll out my rounded R and O. Because women like me are believed to practise witchcraft and blackmagic. We swallow men and spit out their bones. These hands that danced with your ghosts on the bluest 4 AMs. These hands that raised a knife to its throat. How deep was the longing to be nothing more than an empty bed, an empty room. If someone asks you tell them writing was the closest I came to witchcraft. Poetry was the closest I came to being possessed. I wanted to leave behind more than emptiness so I wrote. . They say it takes 7 seconds for the eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. I glide across the dark room like the light was never here. Your body imprint on the mattress lost to the frenzied waltz of sunray and dust. How easy was it to just grab a handful of you before you dissolved. If someone asks tell them loving you was the closest I came to seeing god. . On some nights I open the curtains and you are the moon. I am the darkness surrounding it. Which is to say I don't know how to love without being consumed. If they ask you tell them remembrance was the closest I came to being sick. . Once I met a homeless man who spoke in madness because he had forgotten his mother tongue. How long do you hide yourself from the world before you forget your beginning. Like him - I too am full of silence. My beloved - a handful of you, your body. There are things I could only tell the moths but they no longer visit. I have put off the fireplace. Which is to say they too don't know how to love something that won't kill them. . My phone always autocorrects I love you to I live you and what is love if not living the other person. One summer afternoon our bodies turned into each other's. Your breath played lye strings on my neck. If they ask you tell them that was the closest I came to being alive.
Ayushee Ghoshal (4 AM Conversations (with the ghosts of old lovers))
My Hailey. I wondered if she thought I was dumb. I wondered if she thought it bothered me. It didn't. Because I knew that Hailey and I were more than friends. We were an amalgam of pinkie promises and inside jokes and hundreds of phone calls and shared lip balms and deep confessions. We had survived puberty together. I could list every crush she'd ever had, every person she'd ever kissed. I was there when her parents split up and I held her as she cried. I knew the taste of her tears. I knew the pitch of her laugh; it lived in me. We were sisters. So Bri could get fucked.
Rachel Harrison (Bad Dolls)
To honor the love Álvaro gave, I write into being a cup. Next, I fill it with tejuino: la bebida de los dioses. Before I order you to hand this drink to my uncle’s thirsty spirit, allow me to add a scoop of crushed ice, a twist of lime, and three shots of the finest tequila. Now, pass the cup to my spinster tío… Thanks.
Myriam Gurba (Creep: Accusations and Confessions)
So now that you’re in like with me, do you think we should start color coordinating our outfits?” She rolled her eyes and groaned. During the last half hour of our car ride, I’d hounded her about her confession. Mostly because I liked to see her squirm. Well, and because she liked me. I was freaking stoked. So I teased her about everything from the necessity of pet names to the value of posting couples’ selfies on various forms of social media to suggestions about our “celebrity” name—I was rooting for Macity. “For what it’s worth, I’m in serious dislike of you right now.” I laughed, enjoying this way too much. “We should also start having sleepovers…since you’re in like with me.” She pressed her palms to her forehead then dragged them down her face. “Oh. My. God. I’m going to kill you before we even make it out of this car.” “Tomorrow I’ll run to the store and get extra toothbrushes so we can keep them at each other’s places. Should I get his and hers towels too?” She banged her head on the headrest. “Too soon?” I pulled into the parking lot of the marina. “Okay, only toothbrushes.” “I’m going to murder you with that fucking toothbrush if you don’t stop saying ‘in like’ with you.” I parked the car. “You started it.” The overhead light popped on as I got out. “Mason!” I laughed as the car door shut. Grumbling, she got out, and I greeted her on the passenger side. “One more, then I promise I’m done.” I shut her door and pushed her up against it. “I’m happy you’re finally in like with me because I’ve been in like with you for a while
Renita Pizzitola (Just a Little Kiss (Crush, #3))
Years later, when I was grown (much taller than he ever grew) and I saw him in a local bar, he remembered my "crush" and said he regretted not acting on it. As silly as it sounds, this confession of his gave me real satisfaction, but the fact is he didn't want the fourteen-year-old I had been but the twenty-two-year-old I had become - another person altogether.
Siri Hustvedt (A Plea for Eros: Essays)
It’s exhausting,” I said. “I have to battle this part along with the sense of frustration and hopelessness it creates. It’s so tough and strong that it seems undefeatable.” “What does the overburdened restless part want?” “It wants someone to bring it under control to rest and have peace. It’s like a hyperactive fidgety child, pacing back and forth, crying for someone to make it stop.” I was having trouble connecting my inner true self to the stressed part because of the intense energy it was creating. Keith guided me by helping me communicate with the stressed part. I needed to make it understand that by stepping aside it would allow the healing process of unburdening the emotional component that was holding in the shame. Without the burden of the disgrace, the anxious, stressed-out, perfectionist, striver part would not have to work so hard to compensate for its self-perceived shortcomings. Furthermore, relieving the humiliating burdens would bring rest, tranquility, and peace. The intense energy could then be orchestrated in better ways. At this point, we ended our session. I left his office once again annoyed and uncertain, wondering if I was ever going to be able to live a normal peaceful life. As I meditated on the session during the week, I understood what my therapist was explaining. I visualized fast-forwarding directly to the ultimate goal of un-blending the various multiple defender traits from the abuse. Getting to the root of the therapy and healing process of dealing with the disgraceful iniquity was my goal. I had trouble believing whether or not my logic in understanding the process was correct. It seemed too simplistic to me at first. I envisioned confessing all my scandalous deeds and desires for the world to know. I imagined no more secrets or lies and eliminating the need to masquerade with a phony façade to hide the atrocious creature I thought I was. Instantly, I was buoyant as helium. The crushing weight from the wicked acts was lifted from my shoulders. The mortifying and disgusting impressions I had were no longer there. I was able to get a brief glimpse of the divine true self. For a moment, I physically felt what life could be like while at peace with myself. Happiness and comfort engulfed me at the possibility of living a life free of judgment, low selfesteem, anxiety and paranoia. While in this good frame of mind, I became aware of all the goodness inside of me and the decent things I was doing in life. My human flaws appeared to be minor bumps in the road rather than being amplified into major roadblocks. I began to see how I pulled myself out of mental illness, addiction, and sexual perversion. I became conscious that I survived sexual abuse at an early age and persevered by holding it together. I was imbued with a sense of accomplishment. I now comprehended and conquered the difficult therapeutic work of dealing with the harmful emotions associated with bringing the misconduct to the surface.
Marco L. Bernardino Sr. (Sins of the Abused)
You told your brother and some guy I don’t even know the things I told you in confidence.” “Yes.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m not sure this helps, but Charlie knows Logan.” “You talked to Charlie?” “Yes, he helped us with the details I didn’t know.” “So you went behind my back, talked to my friends, and told your brothers and some guy everything.” She pressed her lips together. “Yes.” “And you told them things about the blackmail that’s not public knowledge.” Maddie swallowed hard as her throat constricted. “I did.” “I trusted you with information about my family that nobody knows.” “Mitch, I’d never jeopardize you or your family. I’d never tell them if I didn’t trust them implicitly. You know that.” She had to make him understand. He leaned forward, putting elbows on his knees. “I want you to leave.” “What? No. Let me explain.” The blood rushed in her ears as a wave of hot dizziness engulfed her. Fear and desperation warred inside her. “I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t listen.” “You didn’t ask.” Flat. She wrung her hands. “You would have said no.” “I see,” he said, so coldly that it was like being doused with a bucket of ice water. “So that makes it right? You didn’t think I’d agree, so you went behind my back, talked to my friends, your family, and some black-ops guy, revealing the things I’ve told you in private, because you know best?” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Yes, the same way you went behind my back and stalled the repairs on my car so I wouldn’t leave.” His head snapped back. “That’s not the same thing, Maddie.” “You lied, just like me. You went behind my back. Just like me.” She hoped he could see reason, but his expression said otherwise. “I told you those things,” he said through gritted teeth, “because I thought I could trust you.” “You can.” Her stomach clenched. “The evidence says otherwise, now doesn’t it?” Cold, cold words. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please understand, I did it for you.” “No, you didn’t. You did it for you,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Tell me something. Why are you so interested in meddling in my life when you have your own to worry about?” She reared back, stepping toward the door, unable to figure out how to handle this dead, cold Mitch who treated her like a stranger. “I wanted to help you.” “You know how you could have helped me?” There was a cruel twist to his lips. “By being the one fucking person who didn’t betray me.” “I didn’t. That’s not what . . .” She trailed off, feeling helpless. She hung her head and said softly, “I’d never betray you.” “Bullshit. If you thought what you were doing was right, you would have talked to me. ” This ice. She’d prepared for fire, for burning anger, not this. She had no defense. No plan. She walked over to him and fell to her knees, taking his hands in hers. He didn’t even flinch. It was like he was made of stone, and she met his eyes. Hard chips of gold. “Mitch, I’m sorry, I wanted to help.” He studied her as though she was a stranger. “You need to leave now.” The words were a crushing blow, threatening to break her. She did the only thing she could think of and confessed the truth. “I love you.” His mouth firmed. Eyes flashing, he pulled away and stood, moving around her and going over to the window that overlooked the nearly deserted parking lot. “I need you to leave.” Her heart shattered into a million pieces and desolation swept over her. She hadn’t felt anything like this since her father had died and she’d woken in a hospital bed. That same heavy weight crushed her chest, numbing her limbs. Tears spilled onto her cheeks and she wiped them away. Her voice trembled as she spoke, already knowing the answer but unable to keep from asking the question. “Is there anything I can do?” “Yes.” His tone was distant and unreachable. “Leave.” There
Jennifer Dawson (Take a Chance on Me (Something New, #1))
Trust That Smashed --- I stood firm even though The world had crushed my trust Oh, God, I neither expected Nor thought that A figure will strike a last blow To smash my trust Silently and suddenly Whom I always trusted blindly I am collapsing into my entity Before confessing my love Face to face Holding her in my arms.
Ehsan Sehgal
Cut the bullshit. Your little ingénue act---it's pathetic." Her words sock me like a punch in the gut. As much as I hate lying to her face, as much as I've been dying to tell her the truth, to have it out once and for all in a big, messy fight, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. The steely look in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw---she'll crush me. "Okay. Fine," I say, the courage building inside me. I can do this. I have to. "Let's cut the bullshit, then." My eyes drift toward her cabinets. "Maybe we should talk over a glass of wine. Unless that would be bad for the baby." I wait for her to take the bait, but she just stares at me. "There is a baby, right? You wouldn't make something like that up. Only a crazy person would do that. Only someone who was truly horrible, all the way to her core." She clenches her jaw. "You have no idea what you're talking about." "Yes, I do. And you know it." "Watch yourself." "Why? So you can steamroll me like you steamroll everyone? You don't even love him." "You have no idea how I feel. About anything." "I know your marriage is one of convenience. That you sleep in separate bedrooms. That you're having an affair with a guy named Jacques." "And I suppose that makes you an expert on my love life." "No, but it means I know you don't have Hugh's interests at heart." "What do you know about his interests? You think you can parachute in, five years into our marriage, and decide you understand how or why any of this works? You think a month or two of screwing means you know more about him than I do?" "I know he doesn't love you. I know he never did." "Well, la-di-da. Here's a newsflash: It takes more than love to make a relationship work." "But you can't really make a relationship work without it, can you?" "You can if you want to." "Only if both people do. And Hugh doesn't. Not anymore." "Is that so? Then tell me, why did he just spend more than a week with me, discussing our future?" "Because you created a phantom pregnancy without consulting him? Because he's trying to do damage control?" "Ah, I see. Is that what you keep telling yourself?" My face grows hot. "It kills you that he'd choose me over you." She throws her head back and cackles. "Is that what you think? That he'd choose you? Christ, you're even more naive than I thought." "He loves me," I say. "He said so." "You know what else he loves? His career. And how do you think you fit in with that? Let me answer for you: You don't." My hands are shaking. "What about you? You're having an affair with some French guy named Jacques. How do you think that will play with Hugh's constituency? Let me answer for you: Not well.
Dana Bate (Too Many Cooks)
They thought I was troubled after noticing the cut marks I'd made on my arms and legs, a habit I'd picked up to impress cute girls in school. I'd carve a crush's name into my shoulder, or make slashes on my forearm to win their attention. The pain was intense, but it paid off-
Laura Jane Grace (Tranny: Confessions of Punk Rock's Most Infamous Anarchist Sellout)
July 18 Velcro Relationships All minds are joined. — A Course In Miracles While Carla was teaching a seminar, a woman told her, “I feel that my marriage is over. My husband and I have been together for a long time, and we have grown in different directions. I want to leave, but I cannot because I know it would crush him.” A month later at another workshop, a man confessed, “My marriage is empty, but I’m staying with my wife because I know she would never survive a divorce.” Then Carla discovered that he was the husband of the woman who spoke at the first seminar. Relationships are based on matching energy. Like strips of Velcro fasteners, partners contain hooking energies that conform by agreement. Often couples have similar or polarized underlying feelings that go unspoken. When you speak your truth, you invite your partner to do the same, and together you bring the
Alan Cohen (A Deep Breath of Life: Daily Inspiration for Heart-Centered Living)
But it was the orangutan Mitra who stole my heart. In between takes Mitra would clamber across and casually sling his long arm over your shoulder like an old drinking buddy. He would take your hand in his and, his gentle gaze never leaving yours, lift it to his lips. Mitra was chivalrous. He was also an exceptional actor—far better than me. Acting is all about the eyes. Mitra’s eyes were sad and wise. He would look at you, his eyes blinking softly. There was no threat or challenge there. No judgment. It was as if he already knew everything about you anyway, like a wordless sacrament of confession and absolution. He knew exactly what was going on. He participated in this human nonsense, he knew we were fools. He knew he could crush me with one hand. Looking into those eyes there was no way you could doubt that he had a soul, an uncluttered soul that was millions of years old, that had travelled through many incarnations and forgotten none of the lessons.
Magda Szubanski (Reckoning: A powerful memoir from an Australian icon)
Kesuma translates, the women ponder my answer. Another woman asks, “But if you don’t have age groups, how do you know how to show and receive proper respect?” “Um… respect? I don’t know. I guess maybe respect doesn’t mean as much to us. Or it isn’t the same somehow. I respect someone for what he’s accomplished or who he is as a person, not because of how old he is.” The women look horrified. “But respect… respect is what makes us people. It’s what holds together families. Respect is the most important thing!” “For me, respect is nice, but I’d rather have, well—love, I guess.” For some minutes we try to bridge this terrible gulf between us; they are too polite to confess they think me a dangerously insolent heathen, and I am too polite to say I think they’re trapped in some benighted patriarchy. But then I have a sort of revelation—more of an instinct than a reasoned explanation. “You say respect holds people together. I say love. I think—I don’t know how to explain this. I think when I love someone, really love someone… not, um…” I turn to Kesuma. “Not, you know, sexual love, or a crush or something?” He translates, and the women giggle again. “But when I really love someone it’s because I respect him. Or, my respect for him comes out of my love. I think maybe they’re the same, really.” I don’t know if this actually means something or not. But it seems to satisfy the women. There are smiling nods all around.
Julie Powell (Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession)
Before I could say anything the other gagged my mouth with a stone ball. I wanted to say what fools they were, but not the first fool in Dolingo. How could I confess anything with my mouth gagged? And the boy’s smell came to my nose again, so strong, almost as if he was right outside this cell, but now moving away. The one-eyed scientist pulled a knot at his neck and removed his hood. Bad Ibeji. I heard of one found at the foot of the Hills of Enchantment, which the Sangoma burned, even though it was already dead. Even in death it shook the unshakable woman, for it was the one mingi she would kill on sight. Bad Ibeji was never to be born but is not the unborn Douada, who roams the spirit world, wiggling on air like a tadpole and sometimes slipping into this world through a newborn. Bad Ibeji was the twin that the womb squeezed and crushed, tried to melt, but could not melt away. Bad Ibeji grows on its malcontent like that devil of the body’s own flesh, that bursts through the breasts of woman, killing her by poisoning her blood and bone. Bad Ibeji knows it will never be the favored one, so it attacks the other twin in the womb. Bad Ibeji sometimes dies at birth when the mind did not grow. When the mind did grow, all it knows to do is survive. It burrows into the twin’s skin, sucking food and water from his flesh. It leaves the womb with the twin, and sticks so tight to his skin that the mother thinks this too is the baby’s flesh, unformed, ugly like a burn and not handsome, and sometimes throws away them both to the open lands to die. It is wrinkled and puffy flesh, and skin and hair, and one eye big and a mouth that drools without stop, and one hand with claws and another stuck on the belly as if sewn, and useless legs that flap like fins, a thin penis, stiff like a finger, and hole that bursts shit like lava. It hates the twin for it will never be the twin, but it needs the twin for it cannot eat food, or drink water as it has no throat, and teeth grow anywhere, even above the eye. Parasite. Fat, and lumpy, like cow entrails tied together, and leaving slime where it crawls.
Marlon James (Black Leopard, Red Wolf (The Dark Star Trilogy, #1))
Before I could say anything the other gagged my mouth with a stone ball. I wanted to say what fools they were, but not the first fool in Dolingo. How could I confess anything with my mouth gagged? And the boy’s smell came to my nose again, so strong, almost as if he was right outside this cell, but now moving away. The one-eyed scientist pulled a knot at his neck and removed his hood. Bad Ibeji. I heard of one found at the foot of the Hills of Enchantment, which the Sangoma burned, even though it was already dead. Even in death it shook the unshakable woman, for it was the one mingi she would kill on sight. Bad Ibeji was never to be born but is not the unborn Douada, who roams the spirit world, wiggling on air like a tadpole and sometimes slipping into this world through a newborn. Bad Ibeji was the twin that the womb squeezed and crushed, tried to melt, but could not melt away. Bad Ibeji grows on its malcontent like that devil of the body’s own flesh, that bursts through the breasts of woman, killing her by poisoning her blood and bone. Bad Ibeji knows it will never be the favored one, so it attacks the other twin in the womb. Bad Ibeji sometimes dies at birth when the mind did not grow. When the mind did grow, all it knows to do is survive. It burrows into the twin’s skin, sucking food and water from his flesh. It leaves the womb with the twin, and sticks so tight to his skin that the mother thinks this too is the baby’s flesh, unformed, ugly like a burn and not handsome, and sometimes throws away them both to the open lands to die. It is wrinkled and puffy flesh, and skin and hair, and one eye big and a mouth that drools without stop, and one hand with claws and another stuck on the belly as if sewn, and useless legs that flap like fins, a thin penis, stiff like a finger, and hole that bursts shit like lava. It hates the twin for it will never be the twin, but it needs the twin for it cannot eat food, or drink water as it has no throat, and teeth grow anywhere, even above the eye. Parasite. Fat, and lumpy, like cow entrails tied together, and leaving slime where it crawls. The Bad Ibeji’s one hand splayed itself on the one-eyed scientist’s neck and chest. He unhooked each claw and a little blood ran out of each hole. The second hand unwrapped itself from the scientist’s waist, leaving a welt. I shook and screamed into the gag and kicked against the shackles but the only thing free was my nose to huff. The Bad Ibeji pulled his head off the twin’s shoulder and one eye popped open. The head, a lump upon a lump, upon a lump, with warts, and veins, and huge swellings on the right cheek with a little thing flapping like a finger. His mouth, squeezed at the corners, flopped open, and his body jerked and sagged like kneaded flour being slapped. From the mouth came a gurgle like from a baby. The Bad Ibeji left the scientist’s shoulder and slithered on my belly and up to my chest, smelling of arm funk and shit of the sick. The other scientist grabbed my head with both sides and held it stiff. I struggled and struggled, shaking, trying to nod, trying to kick, trying to scream, but all I could do was blink and breathe.
Marlon James
In the Great Dividing Range I crave to repent. In filtered tree fern light I confess the sins of my tribe: we worship the future, demean the past, pay no mind to the present. But a future, cut off from the promise of ever joining history, lies ahead dead on its altar while we chew on our restless feet. What's to become of our own seeds and betrothals: all these floss-haired children inside us that want to live? Want to move, stay, eat the soil from under the house, move on. Want to hold fast but cannot hold still. I am lifting them up as newborns to the nursery window looking out on the forests of Antarctica. I tell them: This is your home. Tell them: None of this is yours. Do not believe as I did. When the world breaks open, fall apart with her entrails, fall with the stones or fly. Let the crush of it make you into some new thing not yourself. See how these trees take the teat of the world and suckle it, drinking time, knowing it is perfect with or without them. Lacking their religion, you will have to make your own. You are the world that stirs. This is the world that waits.
Barbara Kingsolver (How to Fly in Ten Thousand Easy Lessons)
Yeah, well, sometimes…dreams change,” she tried, every word, every hard-spoken confession ripping Roman apart. “And you’re not just a crush, Roman, you…” Her eyes darted about the yard and the people in it. Settled back on Roman. “You’re my dream.” Her breath hitched, and Roman felt his heart stall again. “My new dream.
Kayla Edwards (City of Lies and Legends (House of Devils, #3))
person.” Nobody came to Slote’s flat on Sunday evening. The front page of the Zurich Tageblatt, lying on his desk Monday morning, had a spread of Japanese photographs about the Singapore victory, furnished by the German news service: the surrender ceremony, the hordes of British troops sitting on the earth in a prison compound, the celebration in Tokyo. The story about Father Martin was so short that Slote almost missed it, but there it was at the bottom of the page. The truck driver, who claimed that his brakes had failed, was being held for questioning. The priest was dead, crushed. 19 A Jew’s Journey (excerpt from Aaron Jastrow’s manuscript) APRIL 23, 1942. American bombers have raided Tokyo! My pulse races as it once did when, an immigrant in love with everything American, infected with baseball fever, I saw Babe Ruth hit a home run. For me America is the Babe Ruth of the nations. I unashamedly confess it. And the Babe has come out of his slump and “hit one over the fence”! Strange, how Allied airplane bombs infallibly fall on churches, schools, and hospitals; what a triumph of military imprecision! If Berlin radio speaks the truth—and why should Germans lie, pray?—the RAF has by now flattened nearly all institutions of worship, learning, and healing in Germany, while unerringly missing all other targets. Now we are told that Tokyo was unscathed in the raid except for a great number of schools, hospitals, and temples demolished by the barbarous Americans. Most extraordinary. My niece calls this “Doolittle raid” (an intrepid Army Air Corps colonel of that name led the attack) just a stunt, a token bombing. It will make no difference to the war; so she says. What she did, when the news came through on the BBC, was to entrust her baby to the cook, rush down to the Excelsior Hotel where our fellow journalists are housed, and there get joyously drunk with them. They are drunk nearly all the time, but I have not seen Natalie inebriated in years. I must say that when her chief local admirer, a banal-minded Associated Press reporter, brought her back, she was full of amusing raillery, though scarcely able to walk straight. Her mood was so gay, in fact, that I was tempted to disclose then and there the grave secret I have been harboring for two weeks, not even entrusting it to these pages. But I refrained. She has suffered enough on my account. Time enough to reveal
Herman Wouk (War and Remembrance (The Henry Family, #2))