Meeting Someone And Clicking Quotes

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Sometimes when you meet someone, there’s a click. I don’t believe in love at first sight but I believe in that click. Recognition.
Ann Aguirre (Blue Diablo (Corine Solomon, #1))
I of course have not told my dad about the meet-up, nor do I plan to. I'd rather risk getting abducted by a potential pedophile who has been pretending to be Harper Knight, sixteen-year-old girl, this whole time than admit to him I have feelings for someone I met over the internet.
L.M. Augustine (Click to Subscribe)
She didn’t tell you?” “Tell me what?” Akos demanded. “Cyra was working with us,” Teka said. “During the attack on the sojourn ship, I was supposed to take her out--take our Ryzek’s Scourge while announcing his fate on the intercom, see?” “Don’t call her that,” Akos said. He felt Isae’s eyes on him, and his cheeks went hot. “Yeah, yeah.” Teka waved him off. “Well, she bested me, and she let me go. And then she found me, requested a meeting. She offered to give us whatever we wanted--information, help, whatever--if we did something for her in exchange: get you out of Shotet.” Teka looked at Jorek. “That’s why she didn’t tell him. Because she wanted to get him out, but he wouldn’t leave without his brother.” Jorek clicked his tongue. Those weeks after Ryzek had threatened him, after Cyra tortured Zosita and kept up appearances on Pitha, she had let him think she was just doing whatever Ryzek said. Let Akos believe the worst of her. And all that time she was out working with renegades, giving whatever she could to get him out. It was like she had become someone new and he hadn’t even noticed.
Veronica Roth (Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark, #1))
How to Make an Impression at Your Next Meeting Translate percentages into fractions: If someone says that “25 percent of people clicked on this button,” quickly chime in with “So about one in four,” and make a note. Everyone will nod in agreement, secretly impressed.   Ask the presenter to go back a slide: Do this at any point in the presentation, and you’ll look like you’re paying closer attention than anyone else.   Nod continuously while pretending to take notes: Always bring a notepad with you. Take notes by writing down one word from every sentence you hear. Nod continuously while doing so.   Encourage everyone to “take a step back”: There comes a point in most meetings when everyone is chiming in, except you. This is a great point to say “Guys, guys, can we take a step back here?” Followed by a quick “What problem are we trying to solve?” You’ve just bought yourself another hour of looking clever.
Those vestal virgins found guilty of being unchaste”—their leader’s voice ricochets off the surrounding walls—“were whipped to death in the public square.” She pauses so they can take photos and ask questions. “Public deaths were popular,” I hear her answer someone. “As were blood shows—known as munera. After lunch we will see the slave quarters beneath the Colosseum.” There are collective oohhs and aahhs, and I wonder if they would watch one, or if I would. The ripping of flesh, the breaking of man. Suddenly I get a cramp. When was the last time I had my period? Three, five weeks ago? I can’t remember. I should have been recording it in that damn diary. One of the tour members is watching the couple, who are back at it. Our eyes meet, and I feel myself blush. He’s short and hefty, wearing pleated pants and a sweat-stained polo shirt. His hand rests on a camera that hangs around his neck. He smiles, waggles his eyebrows. Yes, hi, hello. I give him a polite grimace and turn so I can sit more comfortably. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eye I see him raise his camera and click. I don’t know if he’s taking a picture of me or the couple or the ruins. Maybe all three. When the cramp subsides, the tour has moved on. The couple too. At the entrance, I flag down a cab, feeling more spent than I should. “Signora, signora.” The cabby rattles off something in Italian. Usually a migraine precedes my period, and I think I feel one coming on. “Where to?” he finally asks in English.
Liska Jacobs (The Worst Kind of Want)
How can you know him at all when you two don’t talk?” “You don’t need to talk to get to know someone.  You just need to listen,” I said absently, trying to concentrate on my reading.  My words rattled in my head for a moment before what I said clicked into place.  I froze and looked at Clay.  His brown eyes met mine steadily. Damn the patient, clever dog.  A smile twitched my lips.  I never had a chance...and I didn’t mind. “But that’s what I’m saying.  He doesn’t talk.  What are you listening to?” I laughed at her and myself.  “Actions speak louder than words,” I quoted, finally looking up at Rachel.  “He’s there when I need him, he’s kind and caring, he keeps me safe, and as you’ve seen, he cooks and cleans.  What’s not to like, Rachel?” She grumbled under her breath but didn’t have anything else to add. Clay walked over to her and lay on some of her dresses, ending her mutterings that I should get out and meet other people.  She laughed at him then tried to move him.  He laid his head on his paws and winked at me.  He wasn’t mad but enjoyed giving Rachel some grief. Shaking
Melissa Haag (Hope(less) (Judgement of the Six #1))
Glass" In every bar there’s someone sitting alone and absolutely absorbed by whatever he’s seeing in the glass in front of him, a glass that looks ordinary, with something clear or dark inside it, something partially drunk but never completely gone. Everything’s there: all the plans that came to nothing, the stupid love affairs, and the terrifying ones, the ones where actual happiness opened like a hole beneath his feet and he fell in, then lay helpless while the dirt rained down a little at a time to bury him. And his friends are there, cracking open six-packs, raising the bottles, the click of their meeting like the sound of a pool cue nicking a ball, the wrong ball, that now edges, black and shining, toward the waiting pocket. But it stops short, and at the bar the lone drinker signals for another. Now the relatives are floating up with their failures, with cancer, with plateloads of guilt and a little laughter, too, and even beauty—some afternoon from childhood, a lake, a ball game, a book of stories, a few flurries of snow that thicken and gradually cover the earth until the whole world’s gone white and quiet, until there’s hardly a world at all, no traffic, no money or butchery or sex, just a blessed peace that seems final but isn’t. And finally the glass that contains and spills this stuff continually while the drinker hunches before it, while the bartender gathers up empties, gives back the drinker’s own face. Who knows what it looks like; who cares whether or not it was young once, or ever lovely, who gives a shit about some drunk rising to stagger toward the bathroom, some man or woman or even lost angel who recklessly threw it all over—heaven, the ether, the celestial works—and said, Fuck it, I want to be human? Who believes in angels, anyway? Who has time for anything but their own pleasures and sorrows, for the few good people they’ve managed to gather around them against the uncertainty, against afternoons of sitting alone in some bar with a name like the Embers or the Ninth Inning or the Wishing Well? Forget that loser. Just tell me who’s buying, who’s paying; Christ but I’m thirsty, and I want to tell you something, come close I want to whisper it, to pour the words burning into you, the same words for each one of you, listen, it’s simple, I’m saying it now, while I’m still sober, while I’m not about to weep bitterly into my own glass, while you’re still here—don’t go yet, stay, stay, give me your shoulder to lean against, steady me, don’t let me drop, I’m so in love with you I can’t stand up. Kim Addonizio, Tell Me (BOA Editions Ltd.; First Edition (July 1, 2000)
Kim Addonizio (Tell Me)
By the Cauldron,' a familiar male voice said beside Cassian, and he turned to find Lucien in the archway to the training area. ... 'Feyre said she was training, but I hadn't realised she was... well, training.' ... 'Did you think she was filing her nails?' Lucien's mechanical eye clicked. His face tightened as Nesta threw a spectacular left hook into the wood beam. It shuddered with the impact. 'I wonder if there are some things that should not be awoken,' he murmured. Cassian cut him a glare. 'Mind your own business, fireling.' Lucien just watched Nesta attack, his golden skin a little pale. 'Why are you here?' Cassian asked, unable to help the sharpness. 'Where's Elain?' 'I am not always in the city to see my mate.' The last two words dripped with discomfort. 'And I came up here because Feyre said I should. I need to kill a few hours before I'm to meet with her and Rhys. She thought I might enjoy seeing Nesta at work.' 'She's not a carnival attraction,' Cassian said through his teeth. 'It's not for entertainment.' Lucien's red hair gleamed in the dimness of the rainy day. 'I think Feyre wanted a progress assessment from someone who hasn't seen her in a while. 'And?' Cassian bit out. Lucien threw him a withering look. 'I'm not your enemy, you know. You can drop the aggressive brute act.' Cassian gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. 'Who says it's an act?' Lucien let out a long sigh. 'Very well.
Sarah J. Maas (A ​Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #4))