Megan Is Missing Quotes

I'll be your minister--" "Of the exchequer? You'd rob me blind." "I would never steal from you," he'd said hotly. "Oh? Where is my tourmaline necklace? Where are my missing earrings?" "That necklace was hideous. It was the only way to keep you from wearing it." "My earrings?" "What earrings?

It isn't deep," the Eddisian Ambassador said from the other side of the bed. He was leaning over the wound, looking critical and mildly disappointed. Eugenides didn't miss a beat. "It is...too...deep!" he insisted, outraged.

People were like Russian nesting dolls - versions stacked inside the latest edition. But they all still lived inside, unchanged, just out of sight.

That’s what people never understand: They see us hard little pretty things, brightly lacquered and sequin-studded, and they laugh, they mock, they arouse themselves. They miss everything. You see, these glitters and sparkle dusts and magicks? It’s war paint, it’s feather and claws, it’s blood sacrifice.

When someone you love dies, you don't just lose them in the present or in the past. You lose the future you should have had, and might have had, with them. They are missing from all the life that was to be.

There is nothing more dangerous, nothing more powerful, nothing more necessary and essential for survival than the lies we tell ourselves. I

Sometimes when things break, you can hold them together for a while with string or glue or tape. Sometimes, nothing will hold what’s broken, and the pieces fly all over, and though you think you might be able to find them all again, one or two will always be missing. I flew apart. I broke. I shattered like a crystal vase dropped on a concrete floor, and pieces of me scattered all over. Some of them I was glad to see go. Some I never wanted to see again.

I know it makes sense for me and him to just break up now and just live our seperate lives and not have to worry about missing each other all the time. But when I think about that, I get sick. Physically sick. Like I seriously throw up. I need to be with him, even if I can’t, like, be with him.

Whoa. Not too stiff," Cody said. "Secure, strong, but calm. Like you're caressing a beautiful woman, remember?" That made me think of Megan. I lost control, and a green wave of smoky energy burst from my hand and flew out in front of me. It missed the pipe completely, but vaporized the metal leg of the chair it sat on. Dust showered down and the chair went lopsided, dumping the pipe to the floor with a clang. "Sparks," Cody said. "Remind me to never let you caress me, lad.

If I were a monster, I'd pretend to be human.

You don’t have to be sad to miss someone and wish they were still in your life.

Here’s the thing I’ve learned about leaving—you can’t really go back

The past, boxed up and stacked out of sight. But never too far away

Every day," I tell him, "you will miss me either a little less or a little more. Until one day you will wake up and realize you don't miss me at all, or you will find yourself incapable of living without me.

The darkness lives in everyone. She knew this better than anyone. Everyone had two faces, and she looked deep into us until she found it.

I feel like the whole world is off balance. Like I'm losing my shit. Like there's this cliff and I don't even realize I'm on the edge.

Sometimes we miss people, and it's beyond words.

Intention is nice, but it's a thing sometimes based more on hope than on reality.

We were a town full of fear, searching for answers. But we were also a town full of liars.

Sometimes when you break things, you can hold them together for a while with string or glue or tape. Sometimes, nothing will hold what's broken, and the pieces fly all over, and though you think you might be able to find them all again, one or two will always be missing

Missing girls had a way of working their way into someone's head. You couldn't help but see them in everyone - how temporary and fragile we might be. One moment here, and the next, nothing more than a photo staring from a storefront window.

It is quite true what philosophy says; that life must be understood backwards. —SØREN KIERKEGAARD

There is nothing more dangerous, nothing more powerful, nothing more necessary and essential for survival than the lies we tell ourselves.

But friends to call for the deep things, the things that live in the dark spaces of our hearts? Those people didn’t exist for me any longer.

I just wanted you to know you were missed.

Do you think it would be possible for anyone to love you if they could see every single thing you do?’ And I watch them cringe as though I’ve reached out and struck them. ‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘Imagine that everyone could see everything. Every secret, every base physical ejection, every category of porn you’ve ever looked at in a kind of coma when you’re numb to the normal stuff. Think about it all. Every moment of shame, of desperation – do you really think anyone could love you still? Anyone at all?’ 3 I remember what it was like when I first loved Ciaran, before he left me that first time at Christmas, when I’d miss him so much when he went anywhere.

If there's a feeling to home, it's this. A place where there are no secrets, where nothing stays buried; not the past and not yourself. Where you can be all the versions of you, see it all reflected back at you as you walk the same stairs, the same halls, the same rooms. Feel the ghost of your mother as you sit at the kitchen table, hear the words of your father circling round and round after dinner, and your brother stopping by, wishing you'd be a little better, a little stronger.... It's four walls echoing back everything you've ever been and everything you've ever done, and it's the people who stay despite it all. Through it all. For it all.

You change. But the past, it’s still there. The only thing moving is you.

You have to quit keeping this tab in your head of what you lost and what you won. Because then you miss the journey.

People were like Russian nesting dolls—versions stacked inside the latest edition. But they all still lived inside, unchanged, just out of sight.

All of you, you miss too much, looking down instead of out. A screen is no match for reality.

There was a small part of me that was still childish, stubborn in her hope, thinking I could somehow have everything. ...That I could be all the versions of me, stacked inside one another, and find someone who would want them all. But that's childhood. Before you realize that every step is a choice. That something must be given up for something to be gained. Everything on a scale, a weighing of desires, an ordering of which you want more--and what you'd be willing to give for it.

What if I could be happy with Will? Really happy. Not settling. What if I have waited my whole life to find this person who fits me like the missing piece of my puzzle? What if my entire life has led to this point, not to teach me a lesson about appreciating what I have, but to help me let it all go?

And after all, what individual had I been before? What identity was there to erase with my newfound house-pride? I had never found one resilient enough to live on in my memory once it had gone. There had never been one real enough to miss. I disappeared with perfect peace.

And time standing perfectly, painfully still. It's just a thing we created. A measure of distance. A way to understand. A way to explain things. It can weave around and show you things if you let it.

Time isn’t running out. It’s not even real,” he said, and I knew I had lost him—he was lost, circling in his own mind. “It’s just a measure of distance we made up to understand things. Like an inch. Or a mile.

It wasn’t in church but in moments like this when I maybe believed in God or something like that. Some order to the chaos, some meaning. That we collide with the people we need, that we meet the ones who will love us, that there’s some underlying reason to everything.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned about leaving—you can’t really go back.

I loved that lipstick. I am going to miss it.

I’m also wary of walking home late at night on my own, I miss being respectfully called sir when I’m in a shop or restaurant, and I’m definitely taken less seriously when I open my mouth You see, Megan, I learnt first hand how women are discriminated against, which is why I became a feminist after I’d transitioned, an intersectional feminist, because it’s not just about gender but race, sexuality, class and other intersections which we mostly unthinkingly live anyway

I missed whole days huddling in my bed, scrolling through my phone without pleasure or intent, locked into its repetition as a safeguard.

...losing a friend is like losing a language, and I miss the one we spoke together.

The house felt different. Unsafe, unknown, too many possibilities existing all at once. Too many voices whispered back at me from the walls.

But the simple truth was that when a girl like Corinne loves you, you don’t ask why. You just hope it doesn’t change. Tyler

It is quite true what philosophy says; that life must be understood backwards. But then one forgets the other principle: that it must be lived forwards. —SØREN KIERKEGAARD

What's wrong with Shakespeare?" I{Jerry} inquired in interest. " Twisting himself up to say things in such a difficult way that you can't get at what he means. Still, I like some Shakespeare.

That’s what people never understand: They see us hard little pretty things, brightly lacquered and sequin-studded, and they laugh, they mock, they arouse themselves. They miss everything. You see, these glitters and sparkle dusts and magicks? It’s war paint, it’s feathers and claws, it’s blood sacrifice.

Because the thing about standing here in the middle of the mountains with the rain coming down, in a house your grandfather built, is that it's too easy to notice how insignificant you are. How quickly you might go from something to nothing.

But here, the rain was just another part of the landscape. Like it was the thing that lived here and we were merely visitors.

Man . . . cannot learn to forget, but hangs on the past: however far or fast he runs, that chain runs with him. —FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

The monster made him do it. It lived in the woods, and this was its home, and it would speak to you only in a whisper that sounded like your own echo.

Time isn’t running out. It’s not even real, It’s just a measure of distance we made up to understand things. Like an inch. Or a mile. Clocks do not measuring time. They creat it!

I think what I miss most is knowing I was loved. No matter what I did, who I was, I knew there was someone on earth who loved me unconditionally.

I know what it’s like to leave, to come back, to not fit. To feel that distance between you and everything you’ve ever known.

There were tiny moments, like this, when the grief came on strong out of nowhere. It was sneaky, and tricky, and you couldn’t see it coming until it was already there. It came with the mundane, simple tasks: My mother would never be hanging pink streamers at my shower. I would never lean over to someone and conspiratorially whisper, My mother is crazy. She would never become a grandmother.

Nearing two a.m., Liam stretched and yawned, smiling at me. “Don’t you have jet-lag or something? I’ve kept you up too late.” His smile was impossible not to reciprocate. I could feel a smile blossoming unwillingly across my face. “It’s okay. Your mom paid me to stay up and talk to you.” He didn’t even miss a beat. “Well that’s good, since Emily sent a check over in advance for my services to keep you out of trouble.

You know, hon, after Stephie died, we never really talked about her." she says, her hands tight around the cart handle. "There's a lot of pain there. Still. I guess we feel like we failed her. Like maybe if we were home instead of away at college, we could've done something to fix her. Something my patents and the doctors and her boyfriend missed. Sometimes I think I don't have the right to talk about her. Like at the end, I don't know her well enough to say anything. So much of her life became secret. She spent all of her time with her boyfriend, and when she was home, her nose was buried in her diary. I swear that diary was her best friend, even more than Megan." "Did you ever read it?" I ask. "No." "Not even after she died?" Aunt Rachel shakes her head, removing an eggplant from the middle row and pressing her fingers against its flesh. "To this day, I don't know if I would've, either. We never found it, Delilah. It's like she just…took it with her.

You may say that I had gone to ask Megan to marry me in an absurdly complacent frame of mind and that I deserved what I got - but it was not really like that. It was because I felt so assured, so certain, that Megan belonged to me - that she was my business, that to look after her and make her happy and keep her from harm was the only natural right way of life for me, that I had expected her to feel, too - that she and I belonged to each other. But I was not giving up. Oh, no! Megan was my woman and I was going to have her.

You care very deeply for your family, don’t you, Miss Kimble?” “They’re everything to me,” I said simply. “They saved me,

Look at what I am, Miss May. No one here believes a Chinaman. You will be putting yourself in your uncle’s hands once more. Is that what you wish? Better to be dead.

You don’t belong here, Miss Kimble. You’re completely in over your head. Learn to swim, or drown. Those are your only choices when it comes to the Sullivans. Now,

That clock,” he said, pointing behind him. “It’s not measuring time. It’s creating it. You see the difference?

Women are more deliberate. Adding to silent lists of slights, tallying the offenses, building a case, retreating inward. Passion belongs to the men.

Missing girls had a way of working their way into someone's head. You couldn't help but see them in everyone - how temporary and fragile we might be.

The facts. The facts were difficult to see clearly. The facts were like the view from our porch—shadows in darkness and shapes you could conjure up from fear itself.

I missed him being my friend as well as my lover. I

If she thought the blood on Anouk's clothes or the fact that Anouk was barefoot and missing two toes was odd, she didn't bat an eye.

They can go about collecting every material thing of worldly value, but they’re missing everything that truly counts. When you’ve got nothing else, family means everything to you.

You want to believe you're not the saddest person on Earth. That there's someone worse. Someone there with you. Someone suffering beside you through the unfathomable darkness.

Miss Juliet,' he said calmly. 'I can smell you in the wall. Is something wrong/

Miss Juliet,' he said calmly. 'I can smell you in the wall. Is something wrong?

Maybe they knew I had seen darker things. That I would understand. Or perhaps they would sense that I am an excellent keeper of secrets. I am.

I'm sitting in the bleachers, watching longingly as all the boys and umbumped girls in my Personal Health and Fitness class play Muggle Quidditch. I don't even like the game very much, I think it's silly, but I so miss physical activity that I'd be thrilled if I could run around the gymnasium with a broom between my legs, chasing after the human snitch wearing a gold pinny.

Time isn't running out. It's not even real," he said, and I knew I had lost him--he was lost, circling in his own mind. "It's just a measure of distance we made up to understand things. Like an inch. Or a mile." He moved his hands as he spoke, to accentuate the point. "That clock," he said, pointing behind him. "It's not measuring time. It's creating it. You see the difference?

That girl faded to nothing.... She disappeared. She changed her hair and her accent, her phone number, her address. She did not look back. Do what you need to do.... Pick yourself up. Start over again.

But here's the thing I've learned about leaving- you can't really go back. I don't know what to do with Cooley Ridge anymore, and Cooley Ridge doesn't know what to do with me, either. The distance only increases with the years. Most times, if I tried to shift it back into focus...all I'd see was a caricature of it in my mind: a miniature town set up on entryway tables around the holidays, everything frozen in time.

when i go outside i try to mentally will the world to 'missed connect' me. i make subtle eye contact with people and think 'you need to craigslist me, you need to craigslist me, you need to craigslist me' at them very hard

But maybe there was nothing more intimate than someone knowing all your secrets, every one of them, and sitting beside you anyway, buying your favorite food, running his fingers absently through your hair so you can sleep.

There had been times when missing him had felt like someone had reached inside her and pulled out the part of her that remembered how to breathe. And times when she’d barely given the memories of him a second’s worth of her time.

Everett had never been a teenage girl—maybe there was some equivalent in the adolescent male, something that simmers under the surface of a friendship like that. But the simple truth was that when a girl like Corrine loves you, you don't ask why. You just hope it doesn't change.

I am tired of hearing there is a reason for your death, for my heartbreak, and that when we get to the other side it will all make sense. It will never make sense, even when my heart stops hurting so much. I miss you. I wish you had never died. DRU WEST, Writing Your Grief student,

That's what people never understand: They see us hard little pretty things, brightly lacquered and sequin-studded, and they laugh, they mock, they arouse themselves. They miss everything. You see, these glitters, and sparkle dusts and magicks? It's war paint, it's feathers and claws, it's blood sacrifice.

I brought Tyler outside in the rain once. Asked him, "Do you feel it?" Laced my fingers with his and waited for his whispered "Yes." He could have been talking about anything- the cold on his face, the rainwater in his shoes, the sky whispering to him about love and loneliness and me. But I liked to believe he felt the same. That he was the person who always understood.

Women start receiving pamphlets from the state at age eighteen. We are told starting at fourteen to monitor ourselves for signs of magical expression. Floating while sleeping, lights consistently flickering as we walk beneath them, unconsciously repeating ourselves three times, having a desire to eat raw meat, hearing voices others can’t hear, wanting to teach other people cruel lessons. At school, we are separated from the boys for classes about menstruation, our changing bodies, and what we should do if we ever feel like we are being swayed toward the dark one’s path. Our parents could opt us out of health classes, but no one could miss any of the classes about checking ourselves and our peers for witchcraft.

As promised, I hope this painting finds you well. Such a beautiful picture deserves an equally beautiful frame, and while I cannot claim to be perfect, I tried my best to craft something deserving of the honor. I found this wood from a felled tree in the grove, where we so often met, and where I fell utterly and entirely in love with you. Please do not feel sorry for me. I am happy to have known you at all. Happy to have helped you in some small way in your journey. You certainly inspired me in mine. And so, I wanted to thank you, dearest Ros, you brilliant, beautiful girl, for being true to who you are. What a list you created! I can only imagine what more you will do and see and become. I do wish I could have withheld my affection only if it meant that you and I could maintain a comfortable friendship.

Commitment is what transforms a dream into reality. One percent or ninety-nine percent complete are both incomplete. Wanting is wishing or dreaming. Deciding is the willingness to do whatever it takes to make your wishes and dreams come true. Pondering on what you are going to do actually sucks up more time and energy than going out there and doing it. If you’re planted in an environment with depleted soil loaded with weeds, your conditions must change in order for you grow and thrive. As you change your circle of influence, your thinking changes, and ultimately your world changes too. When you are too busy trying to outshine others, you miss out on your own inner spark. If your focus is on competing with others, you cannot complete you. Perfection is a myth, a misconception, and just an opinion. A well-tailored business suit might look perfect to a banker, but deemed to be dreadful to a heavy metal rocker. Going out of your comfort zone might be gut-wrenching, but dying with the music still inside is even more painful. Stagnation drains your energy and slowly sucks the life out of you. When you declutter your mental space, just like clearing out physical space, you find valuables you had long forgotten about. Keeping emotional toxin in your head is like fertilizing unwanted weeds. Positivity is your weed killer. Turn it around, and let that poison fuel your passion, just like farmers using manure to fertilize plants. Like eating, going to the bathroom, or exercising, self-transformation cannot be delegated. I was a sunflower trying to survive and grow in a stinky muddy swamp, but instead being strangled by a bunch of weeds.

Mr. Lu doesn’t miss a beat. He’s always on the lookout for phones and other contraband. “Molly and Megan, you want to share that note with the class?” “Not really,” I say.

Miss Godeleva!” A man’s voice called my name from aboard the ship. I looked up to see the entire crew lining the nearest rail, facing me. In unison, every man bowed to me. “For Sir Vorel!” the same man called out...My heart pounded in my chest, and I released Sir Fhirell’s arm, sinking into a deep curtsy to show my respect for every one of the men who had risked themselves to rescue Megan and to keep me safe; despite how foolish I had been.

Megan was a tall awkward girl, and although she was actually twenty, she looked more like a schoolgirlish sixteen. She had a shock of untidy brown hair, hazel green eyes, a thin bony face, and an unexpected charming one-sided smile. Her clothes were drab and unattractive and she usually had on lisle thread stockings with holes in them.

If there's a feeling to coming home- something comforting and nostalgic: a mother's cooking, a family pet sleeping at the foot of the bed, an old hammock strung between trees in the yard- for me, it's this. It's Tyler. Knowing that there's someone who has seen all the different versions of me; watched as they stacked themselves away inside one another; knows all the choices I've made, the lies I've told, the things I've lost, and still.

Didn't matter how long it had been or what we last said to each other. He stands in my room and it's spring break two years ago. He takes a step forward and it's the summer after college graduation. He says my name and I'm seventeen.

No one here wants to acknowledge that there might just be chaos and that some things happen because they can, like cars running people over, like bullets ripping through a skull or tearing open a heart, like blood clots filling lungs so you can’t get air, or cancer consuming what is left of the body. A pre-mapped-out lifetime doesn’t make the death of someone you actually love any less devastating. I am tired of hearing there is a reason for your death, for my heartbreak, and that when we get to the other side it will all make sense. It will never make sense, even when my heart stops hurting so much. I miss you. I wish you had never died. [...] Excerpt from: "It's OK That You're Not OK: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn't Understand" by Megan Devine. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

The final straw for the players was a game scheduled in Hawaii at Aloha Stadium during the victory tour. No one from U.S. Soccer had gone to inspect the facilities before scheduling the national team to play there. The practice field was grass, but it was patchy, bumpy, and lined with sewer plates that had plastic coverings. It was on that sub-par practice field that Megan Rapinoe tore her ACL, which meant she might have to miss the 2016 Olympics the next year. Then, the next day, the players got to the stadium where they were supposed to play the game. Not only was it artificial turf, but the players were concerned by the seams on the field where parts of the turf were pulling up off the ground. Sharp rocks were embedded all over the field. If someone from U.S. Soccer had been there beforehand to inspect it, there’s no way they could’ve believed it was an appropriate venue for a national team soccer match. The players unanimously agreed to boycott the match and stand up to the federation together. The federation officially cancelled the match, and Sunil Gulati, the president of U.S. Soccer, publicly apologized, calling it “a black eye for this organization.” The players seemed more determined than they had been in a long time to fight for themselves.

Bran: Come with me to the British Museum. I miss you.

And to answer your question,” Megan says, “of course I miss them. I like to think we’re the sum total of all those who helped us or hurt us or simply shared our life for a moment. I revisit the past often these days. But I couldn’t back

That is exactly the thing I appreciate most about love, Miss Moore. Its opinion is not easily swayed by status or money or flaws. Unless it is betrayed, it is most forgiving. And it holds steadfast in any weather.

I stared at my phone, wondering whom to call to ground myself. The truth is, I’m not good at close friends. I’m great at casual, at meeting up after work and bringing lasagna to the potluck. I’m excellent at being friends with Everett’s friends. But not at exchanging numbers and calling up just to talk.

The paranoia gaining force as people searched for signs, for clues, for how we had missed the danger among us for so long.

She looked at him, marveling, as she often did, at his dark, shining eyes, at his jaw upholstered in skin too young for him, too smooth and vital-looking for someone wilting down to nothing. How she would miss the sight of his face when he was finally done disappearing.

There was a small part of me that was still childish, stubborn in her hope, thinking I could somehow have everything. That Tyler could become Everett, that Everett could become Tyler. That I could be all the versions of me, stacked inside one another, and find someone who would want them all. But that’s childhood. Before you realize that every step is a choice. That something must be given up for something to be gained. Everything on a scale, a weighing of desires, an ordering of which you want more—and what you’d be willing to give for it.