Ps I Hate You Quotes

There’s a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them.

Sometimes I wish I were passionate about something real. Something I knew I could succeed in. Right now all my dreams are a little far-fetched.

I hate goodbyes, but hating them is never a justification to stay.

It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them.

Shit!" he yells. "I hate that I can't protect you from this.

The truth is, Ari, I miss El Paso. When we first moved there, I hated it. But now I think about El Paso all the time. And I think of you. Always, Dante P.S.

A sunflower for my sunflower. To brighten the dark October days you hate so much. Plant some more, and be safe in the knowledge a warm and bright summer awaits.

Colin, I hate to fulfill the Theorem, but I don't think we should be involved romantically. The problem is that I secretly in love with Hassan. I can't help myself. I hold your bony shoulder blades in my hands and think of his fleshy back. I kiss your stomach and I think of his awe-inspiring gut. I like you, Colin, I really do. But-I'm sorry. It's just not going to work. I hope we can still be friends. Sincerely, Lindsey Lee Wells P.S. Just kidding.

P.S. Nothing personal, but I think this journal assignment is a waste of time. I know I have to do something to make up for all the work I'm missing at school, but I HATE busywork. And that's what this journal thing is. Half the teachers at school assign work they never read. When we get stupid assignments like that, I always write somewhere on my paper "blah blah blah" or "I bet you're not even reading this," are you? or "Give me a sign if you're reading this." They never are.

Insulting my intelligence is one of the worst things a woman can do.

You couldn't just leave her?" "No," he says. "She's going through some shit right now. I'm just trying to be there for her. As a friend. That's it!" "Gosh, she really knows how to work you, Peter!" "It's not like that." "It's always like that. She pulls the strings and you just . . ." I dangle my arms and head like a marionette doll. Peter frowns. "That was mean." "Well, I feel mean right now. So watch out." "You're not mean, though. Not usually." "Why can't you just tell me? You know I won't tell anyone. I really want to understand it, Peter." "Because it's not for me to say. Don't try to make me tell you, because I can't." "She's just doing this to manipulate you. It's what she does." I hear the jealousy in my voice, and I hate it, I hate it. This isn't me.

The thought of what could have been is as painful as a broken heart. – Bridgett Devoue

My perfect future has you in it.

What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult? Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he says helpfully. “Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme insensitive with sensitive. Gold star for you.” On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.” “I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done. Dead silence crashes over the kitchen. Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list. That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it... “I just have one question,” Garrett starts. “Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.” Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.” Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.” “It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth. My best friend nods solemnly. Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing. “What are you doing?” I demand. “Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.” “I hate you.” I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.” “Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?” “The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.” Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.” He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it. “Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.” “Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.” I ponder the next line. “How sweet…” “Your ass,” Tucker supplies. Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again. “Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.” “Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.” Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?” “Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.” That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?” “None of your fucking business.” “Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!” I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.” Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes.

Apology Letter from the Brain Hey there. I’m sorry. OK? But can I say something? Look. I admit I wasn’t perfect. No one is perfect. That’s a fact. Speaking of facts, don’t you think we all need to take a minute and decide who is right and who is wrong? Every side is different; it’s just that my side seems more right. I’m not just saying that because it’s my side. I think a lot of other people would agree with me, given the chance. If I upset you in some way, please know that wasn’t my intention. I didn’t know how sensitive you were. It’s obvious I can set you off very easily. That’s not an insult; it’s just an observation. I think it would help if we talked about this more and argued about who was telling the truth. I would like to see you in person and tell you how the situation has affected me. I may use this opportunity to bring up other times you have hurt me in the past. If possible, I would like to hurt you back. Either way, I want to be in control. Until then, take care. And please, remember I reached out first. I remain, THE BRAIN Apology Letter from the Heart Hey there. I’m sorry. I’ve found it hard to tell you this, and I realize my apology may be too little or come too late. It is important for me to let you know that I am sorry for what I did or said or didn’t do or say. I was wrong. I make mistakes. I HATE that I made one with you. I’m reaching out because life goes by so fast and I just don’t want my one life to go by without expressing this to you. I want to do and be better. This apology is yours. Feel free to do whatever you want with it. My hope is that it gives you comfort, but my goal is that it doesn’t cause you any pain. Again, I am TRULY sorry. Thank you for taking the time to read this. Love, THE HEART P.S. I’m sorry.

Clearly you never do anything wrong or have a bad fucking day in your life because if you did, you wouldn’t be so quick to write off someone’s apology.

A man in love tells you straight. A boy in love tells you with actions. A boy in love who’s tryin’ to deny it, welp, that boy’s gonna drive you to the brink of insanity and back.

want to hear you say you love me again.” “Why? So you can use it against me?” He drops his forehead to mine, his eyes fluttering closed. “So you can teach me how to say it back.

HUMAN'S LOVE and POLITICS be like IF YOU DON'T LOVE ME, I WILL HATE YOU

I am beyond your love and hate; you are beyond my love and hate

I got so focused on always seeking out new experiences, I forgot how good a classic could be.

A childhood that consisted of zero control over my life makes it almost impossible for me to allow someone else to dictate my choices now.

In the end, I forgive her for keeping her secrets hidden. The details of her past were hers to cherish. Sharing them would only cheapen the memories she stored inside her until the day she died.

In reality, the damned are in the same place as the saved—in reality! But they hate it; it is their Hell. The saved love it, and it is their Heaven. It is like two people sitting side by side at an opera or a rock concert: the very thing that is Heaven to one is Hell to the other. Dostoyevski says, 'We are all in paradise, but we won’t see it'…Hell is not literally the 'wrath of God.' The love of God is an objective fact; the 'wrath of God' is a human projection of our own wrath upon God, as the Lady Julian saw—a disastrous misinterpretation of God’s love as wrath. God really says to all His creatures, 'I know you and I love you' but they hear Him saying, 'I never knew you; depart from me.' It is like angry children misinterpreting their loving parents’ affectionate advances as threats. They project their own hate onto their parents’ love and experience love as an enemy—which it is: an enemy to their egotistic defenses against joy… Since God is love, since love is the essence of the divine life, the consequence of loss of this life is loss of love...Though the damned do not love God, God loves them, and this is their torture. The very fires of Hell are made of the love of God! Love received by one who only wants to hate and fight thwarts his deepest want and is therefore torture. If God could stop loving the damned, Hell would cease to be pure torture. If the sun could stop shining, lovers of the dark would no longer be tortured by it. But the sun could sooner cease to shine than God cease to be God...The lovelessness of the damned blinds them to the light of glory in which they stand, the glory of God’s fire. God is in the fire that to them is Hell. God is in Hell ('If I make my bed in Hell, Thou art there' [Ps 139:8]) but the damned do not know Him.

[From Sid Vicious's letter to Nancy Spungen's mother Deborah] P.S. Thank you, Debbie, for understanding that I have to die. Everyone else just thinks that I'm being weak. All I can say is that they never loved anyone as passionately as I love Nancy. I always felt unworthy to be loved by someone so beautiful as her. Everything we did was beautiful. At the climax of our lovemaking, I just used to break down and cry. It was so beautiful it was almost unbearable. It makes me mad when people say you must have really loved her.' So they think that I don't still love her? At least when I die, we will be together again. I feel like a lost child, so alone. The nights are the worst. I used to hold Nancy close to me all night so that she wouldn't have nightmares and I just can't sleep without my my beautiful baby in my arms. So warm and gentle and vulnerable. No one should expect me to live without her. She was a part of me. My heart. Debbie, please come and see me. You are the only person who knows what I am going through. If you don’t want to, could you please phone me again, and write. I love you. I was staggered by Sid's letter. The depth of his emotion, his sensitivity and intelligence were far greater than I could have imagined. Here he was, her accused murderer, and he was reaching out to me, professing his love for me. His anguish was my anguish. He was feeling my loss, my pain - so much so that he was evidently contemplating suicide. He felt that I would understand that. Why had he said that? I fought my sympathetic reaction to his letter. I could not respond to it, could not be drawn into his life. He had told the police he had murdered my daughter. Maybe he had loved her. Maybe she had loved him. I couldn't become involved with him. I was in too much pain. I couldn't share his pain. I hadn't enough strength. I began to stuff the letter back in its envelope when I came upon a separate sheet of paper. I unfolded it. It was the poem he'd written about Nancy. NANCY You were my little baby girl And I shared all your fears. Such joy to hold you in my arms And kiss away your tears. But now you’re gone there’s only pain And nothing I can do. And I don’t want to live this life If I can’t live for you. To my beautiful baby girl. Our love will never die. I felt my throat tighten. My eyes burned, and I began to weep on the inside. I was so confused. Here, in a few verses, were the last twenty years of my life. I could have written that poem. The feelings, the pain, were mine. But I hadn't written it. Sid Vicious had written it, the punk monster, the man who had told the police he was 'a dog, a dirty dog.' The man I feared. The man I should have hated, but somehow couldn't.

There’s a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them. I think this must be some part of what I feel for Genevieve. Jung is why I can’t hate her. We’re tied.

When we broke up, you said you wanted to be someone’s number one girl, but look at you. You don’t want to have a number one guy.” He gestures rudely at the cake table. “You want to have your cake and eat it too.” His words sting just the way he intends them to. “I hate that saying. What does it even mean? Of course I want to have my cake and eat it too--otherwise what’s the point of having cake?” He frowns at me. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” The song finishes then, and the kids come over to claim their cakes. Kitty and Owen, too. “Let’s go,” Owen says to Peter. He’s got my caramel cake. Peter glances down at him and then back at me, his eyes hard. “I don’t want that one.” “That’s the one you told me to get!” “Well, I don’t want it anymore. Put it back and get the Funfetti down there at the end.

I’m going to have to start booking you guys a month in advance.” “Or you could invite Ms. Rothschild over,” Kitty suggests. “Her weekends are pretty lonely too.” He gives her a funny look. “I’m sure she has plenty she’d rather do than watch The Sound of Music with her neighbor.” Brightly I say, “Don’t forget the tacos al pastor! Those are a draw, too. And you, of course. You’re a draw.” “You’re definitely a draw,” Kitty pipes up. “Guys,” Daddy begins. “Wait,” I say. “Let me just say one thing. You should be going on some dates, Daddy.” “I go on dates!” “You’ve gone on, like, two dates ever,” I say, and he falls silent. “Why not ask Ms. Rothschild out? She’s cute, she has a good job, Kitty loves her. And she lives really close by.” “See, that’s exactly why I shouldn’t ask her out,” Daddy says. “You should never date a neighbor or a coworker, because then you’ll have to keep seeing them if things don’t work out.” Kitty asks, “You mean like that quote ‘Don’t shit where you eat’?” When Daddy frowns, Kitty quickly corrects herself. “I mean ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’ That’s what you mean, right, Daddy?” “Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean, but Kitty, I don’t like you using cuss words.” Contritely she says, “I’m sorry. But I still think you should give Ms. Rothschild a chance. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.” “Well, I’d hate to see you get your hopes up,” Daddy says. “That’s life,” Kitty says. “Things don’t always work out. Look at Lara Jean and Peter.” I give her a dirty look. “Gee, thanks a lot.” “I’m just trying to make a point,” she says. Kitty goes over to Daddy and puts her arms around his waist. This kid is really pulling out all the stops. “Just think about it, Daddy. Tacos. Nuns. Nazis. And Ms. Rothschild.

Between Love & Hate" Watched her as she wiped her eyes; You don't make me sorry. Now I know That you never listened - Listen. Thinking about that high school dance Worrying about the finals Yes I know You're feeling lonely Oh lonely, so lonely. Never needed anybody, I never needed anybody I never needed anybody, I never needed nobody Don't worry about it, honey I never needed anybody I never needed anybody, it won't change now. Am I wrong? Don't sing along with me. I said I was fine, It's just the second time We lost the war She'd be in the kitchen I would start the fire Those days are gone But you know I can't give up - Give up. P.S. if i may ask why When will they get tired We've stayed up All night tryin' - Tryin'. Never needed anybody, I never needed nobody I never needed anybody, I never needed anybody Don't worry about it, honey I never needed anybody I never needed anybody, it won't change now. Am I wrong? Don't sing along with me. I said I was fine. The second time We lost the war

(1) I came to Carthage and all around me hissed a cauldron of illicit loves. As yet I had never been in love and I longed to love; and from a subconscious poverty of mind I hated the thought of being less inwardly destitute. I sought an object for my love; I was in love with love, and I hated safety and a path free of snares (Wisd. 14: 11; Ps. 90: 3). My hunger was internal, deprived of inward food, that is of you yourself, my God. But that was not the kind of hunger I felt. I was without any desire for incorruptible nourishment, not because I was replete with it, but the emptier I was, the more unappetizing such food became. So my soul was in rotten health. In an ulcerous condition it thrust itself to outward things, miserably avid to be scratched by contact with the world of the senses. Yet physical things had no soul. Love lay outside their range. To me it was sweet to love and to be loved, the more so if I could also enjoy the body of the beloved. I therefore polluted the spring water of friendship with the filth of concupiscence.

It was nice to see you, Lara Jean. Peter, don’t keep her out too late.” “I won’t.” To me he says, “I’ll be right back; I’m just gonna get my keys.” When he’s gone, I say, “I’m sorry for dropping in like this on New Year’s Day. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.” “You’re welcome here anytime.” She leans forward and puts her hand on my knee. With a meaningful look she says, “Just be easy with his heart is all I ask.” My stomach does a dip. Did Peter tell her what happened between us? She gives my knee a pat and stands up. “Good night, Lara Jean.” “Good night,” I echo. Despite her kind smile, I feel like I’ve just gotten in trouble. There was a hint of reproach in her voice--I know I heard it. Don’t mess with my son is what she was saying. Was Peter very upset by what happened between us? He didn’t make it out like he was. Annoyed, maybe a little hurt. Certainly not hurt enough to talk to his mom about it. But maybe he and his mom are really close. I hate to think I may have already made a bad impression, before Peter and I have even gotten going.

Is she okay?” “I think she’s in shock,” Kitty says. “I’m not in shock,” I say. But maybe I am. Maybe this is shock. It’s a queer, surreal sort of feeling, like I’m numb, but also all my senses feel heightened. Margot says to Chris, “Why can’t you come in through the front door like a normal person?” “Nobody answered.” Chris yanks off her boots and sits down on the floor next to Kitty. Petting Jamie, she says, “Okay, first of all, you can barely tell it’s you. And second of all, it’s really hot, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, you look great.” Margot makes a disgusted sound. “That’s so beside the point I don’t even know where to begin.” “I’m just being honest! Objectively, it sucks, but also objectively, Lara Jean looks awesome in it.” Crawling under my quilt, I say, “I thought you could barely even tell it was me! I knew I shouldn’t have gone on that ski trip. I hate hot tubs. Why would I willingly get into a hot tub?” “Hey, be glad you were in your pajamas,” Chris says. “You could have been nude!” My head pops out from under the quilt and I glare at her. “I would never be nude!” Chris snorts. “Never nude. Did you know that’s a real thing? Some people call themselves never-nudes and they wear clothes at all times, even in the shower. Like, jean shorts.

After school, I’m walking out of class when my phone buzzes in my purse. It’s Peter. I’m out on parole. Meet me at my car! I race to the parking lot, where Peter is in his car waiting for me with the heat on. Grinning at me, he says, “Aren’t you going to kiss your man? I just got released from prison.” “Peter! This isn’t a joke. Are you suspended?” He smirks. “Nah. I sweet-talked my way out of it. Principal Lochlan loves me. Still, I could’ve been. If it had been anybody else…” Oh, Peter. “Please don’t brag to me right now.” “When I came out of Lochlan’s office, there were a bunch of sophomore girls waiting for me to give me a standing O. They were like, ‘Kavinsky, you’re so romantic.’” He hoots, and I give him a look. He pulls me to his side. “Hey, they know I’m taken. There’s only one girl I want to see in an Amish bikini.” I laugh; I can’t help it. Peter loves attention, and I hate to be another girl who gives it to him, but he makes it really hard sometimes. Besides, it was kind of romantic. He plants a kiss on my cheek, nuzzles against my face. “Didn’t I tell you I would take care of it, Covey?” “You did,” I admit, patting his hair. “So did I do a good job?” “You did.” That’s all it takes for him to be happy, me telling him that he did a good job. He’s smiley all the way home.

Mr. Morales sidles up to the bar and says, “May I have this dance, Lara Jean?” “You may,” I say. To John I warn, “Don’t you dare come close to me.” He throws his hands out like he’s warding me off. “Don’t you come close to me!” As Mr. Morales leads me in a slow dance, I press my face against his shoulder to hide my smile. I’m really quite good at this espionage thing. John McClaren is sitting on a love seat now, watching Stormy play and chatting with Alicia. I’ve got him right where I want him. I can’t even believe how lucky I am. I’d been planning on showing up at his next Model UN meeting, but this is so much better. I’m thinking I’ll come up from behind him, take him by surprise, when Stormy stands up and declares she needs a piano break, she wants to dance with her grandson. I go turn on the stereo and cue up the CD we decided on for her break. John is protesting: “Stormy, I told you I don’t dance.” He used to try and fake sick during the square-dancing unit in gym--that’s how much he hates dancing. Stormy doesn’t listen, of course. She pulls him off the love seat and starts trying to teach him how to fox-trot. “Put your hand on my waist,” she orders. “I didn’t wear heels to sit behind a piano all night.” Stormy’s trying to teach him the steps, and he keeps stepping on her feet. “Ouch!” she snaps. I can’t stop giggling. Mr. Morales is too. He dances us over closer. “May I cut in?” he asks. “Please!” John practically pushes Stormy into Mr. Morales’s arms. “Johnny, be a gentleman and ask Lara Jean to dance,” Stormy says as Mr. Morales twirls her. John gives me a searching look, and I have a feeling he’s still suspicious of me and whether or not I have his name. “Ask her to dance,” Mr. Morales urges, grinning at me. “She wants to dance, don’t you, Lara Jean?” I shrug a sad kind of shrug. Wistful. The very picture of a girl who is waiting to be asked to dance. “I want to see the young people dance!” Normal yells. John McClaren looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “If we’re just swaying back and forth, I probably won’t step on your feet.” I feign hesitation and then nod. My pulse is racing. Target acquired.

She clicks on the last slide, and that’s when it happens. “Me So Horny” blasts out of the speakers and my video, mine and Peter’s, flashes on the projector screen. Someone has taken the video from Anonybitch’s Instagram and put their own soundtrack to it. They’ve edited it too, so I bop up and down on Peter’s lap at triple speed to the beat. Oh no no no no. Please, no. Everything happens at once. People are shrieking and laughing and pointing and going “Oooh!” Mr. Vasquez is jumping up to unplug the projector, and then Peter’s running onstage, grabbing the microphone out of a stunned Reena’s hand. “Whoever did that is a piece of garbage. And not that it’s anybody’s fucking business, but Lara Jean and I did not have sex in the hot tub.” My ears are ringing, and people are twisting around in their seats to look at me and then shifting back around to look at Peter. “All we did was kiss, so fuck off!” Mr. Vasquez, the junior class advisor, is trying to grab the mic back from Peter, but Peter manages to maintain control of it. He holds the mic up high and yells out, “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kick their ass!” In the scuffle, he drops the mic. People are cheering and laughing. Peter’s being frog-marched off the stage, and he frantically looks out into the audience. He’s looking for me. The assembly breaks up then, and everyone starts filing out the doors, but I stay low in my seat. Chris comes and finds me, face alight. She grabs me by the shoulders. “Ummm, that was crazy! He freaking dropped the F bomb twice!” I am still in a state of shock, maybe. A video of me and Peter hot and heavy was just on the projector screen, and everyone saw Mr. Vasquez, seventy-year-old Mr. Glebe who doesn’t even know what Instagram is. The only passionate kiss of my life and everybody saw. Chris shakes my shoulders. “Lara Jean! Are you okay?” I nod mutely, and she releases me. “He’s kicking whoever did it’s ass? I’d love to see that!” She snorts and throws her head back like a wild pony. “I mean, the boy’s an idiot if he thinks for one second it wasn’t Gen who posted that video. Like, wow, those are some serious blinders, y’know?” Chris stops short and examines my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Everybody saw us.” “Yeah…that sucked. I’m sure that was Gen’s handiwork. She must’ve gotten one of her little minions to sneak it onto Reena’s PowerPoint.” Chris shakes her head in disgust. “She’s such a bitch. I’m glad Peter set the record straight, though. Like, I hate to give him credit, but that was an act of chivalry. No guy has ever set the record straight for me.

So Japan is allied with Germany and they’re like “Sweet the rest of the world already hates us let’s take their land!” So they start invading China and Malaysia and the Philippines and just whatever else but then they’re like “Hmm what if America tries to stop us? Ooh! Let’s surprise attack Hawaii!” So that’s exactly what they do. The attack is very successful but only in a strictly technical sense. To put it in perspective, let’s try a metaphor. Let’s say you’re having a barbecue but you don’t want to get stung by any bees so you find your local beehive and just go crazy on it with a baseball bat. Make sense? THEN YOU MUST BE JAPAN IN THE ’40s. WHO ELSE WOULD EVER DO THIS? So the U.S. swarms on Japan, obviously but that’s where our bee metaphor breaks down because while bees can sting you they cannot put you in concentration camps (or at least, I haven’t met any bees that can do that). Yeah, after that surprise attack on Pearl Harbor everybody on the West Coast is like “OMG WE’RE AT WAR WITH JAPAN AND THERE ARE JAPANESE DUDES LIVING ALLLL AROUND US.” I mean, they already banned Japanese immigration like a decade before but there are still Japanese dudes all over the coast and what’s more those Japanese dudes are living right next door to all the important aircraft factories and landing strips and shipyards and farmland and forests and bridges almost as if those types of things are EVERYWHERE and thus impossible not to live next door to. Whatever, it’s pretty suspicious. Now, at this point, nothing has been sabotaged and some people think that means they’re safe. But not military geniuses like Earl Warren who points out that the only reason there’s been no sabotage is that the Japanese are waiting for their moment and the fact that there has been no sabotage yet is ALL THE PROOF WE NEED to determine that sabotage is being planned. Frank Roosevelt hears this and he’s like “That’s some pretty shaky logic but I really don’t like Japanese people. Okay, go ahead.” So he passes an executive order that just says “Any enemy ex-patriots can be kicked out of any war zone I designate. P.S.: California, Oregon, and Washington are war zones have fun with that.” So they kick all the Japanese off the coast forcing them to sell everything they own but people are still not satisfied. They’re like “Those guys look funny! We can’t have funny-looking dudes roaming around this is wartime! We gotta lock ’em up.” And FDR is like “Okay, sure.” So they herd all the Japanese into big camps where they are concentrated in large numbers like a hundred and ten thousand people total and then the military is like “Okay, guys we will let you go if you fill out this loyalty questionnaire that says you love the United States and are totally down to be in our army” and some dudes are like “Sweet, free release!” but some dudes are like “Seriously? You just put me in jail for being Asian. This country is just one giant asshole and it’s squatting directly over my head.” And the military is like “Ooh, sorry to hear that buddy looks like you’re gonna stay here for the whole war. Meanwhile your friends get to go fight and die FOR FREEDOM.

whatever,” she says. “There’s beauty in feeling an entire spectrum of emotions

The eternal God is your refuge, And underneath are the everlasting arms. (Deut. 33:27) In you, O LORD, I put my trust; Let me never be ashamed; Deliver me in Your righteousness. Bow down Your ear to me, Deliver me speedily; Be my rock of refuge, A fortress of defense to save me. For You are my rock and my fortress; Therefore, for Your name’s sake, Lead me and guide me. Pull me out of the net which they have secretly laid for me, For You are my strength. Into Your hand I commit my spirit; You have redeemed me, O LORD God of truth. I have hated those who regard useless idols; But I trust in the LORD. I will be glad and rejoice in your mercy, For You have considered my trouble; You have known my soul in adversities. (Ps. 31:1–7) God is our refuge and strength, A very present help in trouble. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth! The LORD of hosts is with us; The God of Jacob is our refuge. (Ps. 46:1, 10–11) For indeed, those who are far from You shall perish; You have destroyed all those who desert You for harlotry. But it is good for me to draw near to God; I have put my trust in the Lord GOD, That I may declare all Your works. (Ps. 73:27–28)

He called me this morning, asked me if he could get a VIP pass for some girl.

Saturday #3

For a long time I had her convinced that raisins were my absolute favorite, and she must never eat more than her share, when in actuality I hate raisins and was grateful someone else was eating them.

Dear love, I'm your never ending hate and you're my never ending love.

Do you love? One thing, I shall promise you, one day, you'll hate you.

I want to start everything in New, what's the bad point?? I don't want to have problems with people which we can be friends or nothing, but not argue as before. What's the purpose what did you gain??? Points?? Money?? PS3??? Xbox??? Nothing just useless and making troubles with people, if we must discuss something let's to be about the fucking Bulgarian Schools, talk about them, I hate them as much as you hate them, I hate the Bulgarian as much as you hate them, I hate the fucking teachers in the fucking schools with which just have fucking problems. How can somebody joke with your spelling or with your mistakes for months???? ... What more to tell you??? That I'm sorry that I'm a Bulgarian guy, because I'm sorry, I can't live with this fucking people, what do they created??? Nothing just staying home and jerkoff non-stop, very creative! And guest what happened??? Here come the "?" people which are terrorists in france and have killed a lot of people and here will be planed the same....,what more only the thought that somebody has graduated from the best school existed in Bulgaria and to have fails with the writing like making so easy mistakes that nobody will make ever, to make mess on the sheets and many other things and this on very important day. A day in which you choose the president or the pre-minister or some kind like this, which is important. I'm very sorry that I'm Bulgarian guy, I don't want to be the cases are this, I want to be an American or a guy from Great Britain, but whatever to be, but to know this language. All people use it, and we are the only people which or some others as one User said that France and Germany are also with the worst English in case that Germany words are like English, but little fucked like spelled and written different like Sänger - singer songster schreiben WOw, this is really fucked just look how arae spelled how are written little like joking with English, aren't they??? If they aren't okay, that's your opinion _ I don't have something against it! If there was chance to be other race no matter what American guy or whatever ot to change my country ot my native language I will do it. If there is chance to and learn English, I go and learnt it without giving and shit about the fucking Bulgarian, I won't call my parents, friends and everything, just everything will be mainly for learning English the best way as possible. I fill fucked there are people which can't read, english, to don't talk about bulgarian, all day I'm seeing how mass media brain washes. I don't see how can be improved Bulgaria it's a fail I know why Adolf Hitler wanted to destroyed it and why Churchill Wanted also, I'm not sure about Churchill, but for HItler I'm sure that he wanted to kill us because of that, whatever you understand me what level we are as nation. I hate the fucking Bulgarian people what to learn from them to joke with people badly??? Very Creative??? To jerkoff all time and to don't give a damn shit about the things around the world?? Or to be with friends which can't think or people which are so much stupid that I'm sorry about them... Whatever, read it if you want if you don't want don't read it, but first check it before you block me. Thank you I appreciate your reading!

Dearest April, When I met you, I immediately felt like the sun rose and set in your eyes. I went to bed thinking about you at night, and I woke up with you on my mind in the morning. We had some really good times, didn’t we? I relished the long walks we took. I looked forward to seeing you at night and sleeping with you in my arms. Then I got the diagnosis. I found out that I was sick, and when I needed you to be there for me, you fucked my best friend. You weren’t there to hold my hand through chemo. You weren’t there to help me get to and from doctors’ appointments. You weren’t there when I was so sick I couldn’t hold my head up. You were with him. You were under him and on top of him and with him instead of me. I asked my brothers to give you this letter in the event of my death, so if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’ve lived out my days, and even though you’ve moved on, I need to tell you how I feel. A good man might want to ease your conscience. A good man might want to give you some peace. But good wasn’t important to you. I fucking hate you. I hate that you’re breathing. I hate that you’re alive. I hate that you’re able to laugh and that you’re going to go on and procreate and make more sorry-ass human beings just like yourself. I hope that your heart leaped when you got this letter. Final words of love from me. Hahahahahaha! I am dead, so I can say whatever I want. And what I want to say is: I fucking hate you. I hope you get exactly what you deserve in life. With the utmost hatred and disdain, Matthew Reed PS – I still hate you.

Dear Children, I am your dad. The father of all five of you pale creatures. Given how attractive and fertile your mother is, there may be more of you by the time you read this book. If you are reading this, I am probably dead. I would assume this because I can honestly foresee no other situation where you’d be interested in anything I’ve done. Right now, you are actually more interested in preventing me from doing things like working, sleeping, and smiling. I’m kidding, of course. Kind of. I love you with all of my heart, but you are probably the reason I’m dead. All right, you didn’t kill me. Your mother did. She kept getting pregnant! I don’t know how. Don’t think about it. It will give you the willies. At one point, I was afraid she got pregnant while she was pregnant. She was so fertile I didn’t even let her hold avocados. Anyway, this is a book all about what I observed being your dad when you were very young and I had some hair back in good old 2013. So why a book? Well, since you’ve come into my life, you’ve been a constant source of entertainment while simultaneously driving me insane. I felt I had to write down my observations about you in a book. And also for money, so you could eat and continue to break things. By the way, I’m sorry I yelled so much and did that loud clapping thing with my hands. I hated when my dad would do the loud clapping thing with his hands, so every time I do the loud clapping thing, it pains me in many ways. Most of the pain is because that loud clapping thing actually hurts my hands. You may be wondering how I wrote this book. From a very early age, you all instinctively knew I wasn’t that bright of a guy. Probably from all the times you had to correct me when I couldn’t read all the words in The Cat in the Hat. Hell, I find writing e-mails a chore. (Thank you, spell-check!) I wrote this book with the help of many people, but mostly your mother. Your mother is not only the only woman I’ve ever loved, but also the funniest person I know. When your mom was not in labor yelling at me, she made me laugh so hard. Love, Dad P.S. How did you get that hula hoop into that restaurant Easter 2011? Who’s Who in the Cast Jim Gaffigan (Dad).

I don't want to be black and white, but I do want to be better. To you, But I need you to be better to me too. Gen P.S. Wow. That was the gayest thing I have ever written.

Details were important to me. If I missed one number, it could be catastrophic. That was why I didn’t miss numbers. I studied details. Yet, I’d missed a glaring one. Catherine was pregnant. Now that I’d been made aware of it by my smug friends, Weston and Luca, I questioned how I could have missed it. Seated across from me, her round stomach stretched her thin, black sweater to within an inch of its life. I didn’t like being surprised almost as much as I hated blue ink. She lifted her eyes from her tablet, catching me studying her. Her head cocked, and she rubbed her lips together. I glanced down at the swell of her belly, and she exhaled. “Are you ready to have this conversation?” I asked. “Not really.” Slowly, she lowered her tablet to the seat beside her. “An email would probably be more efficient.” “We seem to be in the car for the long haul. I’d prefer to make use of our time.” I tapped the window, drawing her attention to the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Were you planning on giving birth at your desk?” Her mouth twitched. “That would have been quite an announcement. No, that was never in the cards.” “Are you coming back after your leave?” She jolted like I’d shocked her. “Of course I am. I have to work.” “How will you do this job with a small baby at home?” Her hands stacked in her lap. “Are you allowed to ask me that?” “Probably not, but it’s a genuine concern. Will your husband be able to take over childcare while you’re traveling with me?” She let out a lilting laugh. “Oh, I don’t have a husband.” I would have been surprised if she’d said she did since her background check hadn’t turned up a marriage. But a lot could change in a little time, so anything was possible. “Your boyfriend?” “Same answer.” For the second time, I was taken aback. The background check had revealed Catherine owned a house in Denver and lived with her partner. Whether they were still together was none of my business, and I was certain she’d tell me exactly that if I asked. “Do you have a plan?” I pressed. “You don’t have to worry about my plans, Elliot.” “I do if it affects your work. Is this”—I outlined the shape of her stomach in the air in front of me—“going to slow you down?” “Again, are you allowed to ask me that?

I don't give too many options to my love, play until you give in; I don't give too many options to my enemies, play until you give up.

For Hailey. You hate it when men write through the eyes of a woman so much and , yet,  you inspired me to write this book which - I am sure - you will never read. And that is fine. That being said, I am surprised how much time you spend moaning about male authors mis-representing people, and groups, when you could spend more time enjoying the things which do not upset your delicate sensitivities. Art can be enjoyed by anyone. Art can be created by anyone. Only Nazis dictate otherwise. You trout. PS: Yes, I spelled your name wrong on purpose.

Dear Miss Know-It-All, I worked really hard to make the eighth-grade cheerleading team this year, but the other cheerleaders treat me like I don’t belong. I never get to do much cheering or dancing like they do. The only time the team captain needs me is when we do the human pyramid, and she always puts me at the bottom! I have to hold the most people on my back, which is totally excruciating, and if I lose my balance, the whole pyramid collapses and everyone bullies me about it! I’m tired of those girls walking all over me. Literally! I don’t know what I did to deserve this kind of treatment, but it’s pretty obvious they all hate my guts. ! I’m majorly frustrated! I don’t know if I should quit the team, confront my teammates, or just keep quiet so I don’t make things worse. I really don’t want to give up my dream of making varsity! What would you do?? —Cheerless Cheerleader * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dear Cheerless Cheerleader, Hon . . . I think you’re kidding yourself if you think you made the cheerleading team based on your awesome moves. My reliable source on the team told me your tryout routine was HOR-REN-DOUS. She said she couldn’t tell if you were trying to dance or going into convulsions! Your backflips were BACKFLOPS, your cartwheels were FLAT TIRES, and your dismount was totally DISGUSTING! Get the picture? You were chosen for one reason, and one reason alone—you look like a sturdy ogre who can carry a lot of weight! It’s been a long tradition for cheerleading captains to hand-pick strong, ugly girls for the bottom of the pyramid. Didn’t you know that?? Quit taking everything so personally! Just accept that the bottom is where you belong, sweetie! You should hold your green, Shrek-looking head high that someone actually wants you for something. Bet that doesn’t happen often! Yay you! Sincerely, Miss Know-It-All P.S. My source wants you to stop dancing. She says you’re giving the squad NIGHT TERRORS!

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a list of twenty-five great qualities about you. If you have trouble, enlist the help of friends, family, and most important, the One who made you great. Once you’ve made a list of great things about you, why not do the same for a single friend of yours who needs a confidence boost? She’ll be encouraged, and you may just get blessed in the process, too. If you question the scriptural soundness of this assignment—what about humility and the verse that says “Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought” (Rom. 12:3)?—I respectfully challenge you to look up the word “love” in a concordance and start reading through the numerous Bible verses that affirm how much your Creator loves and values you. I’m not suggesting you trot around with I’m-all-that haughtiness, but I am suggesting that thinking too lowly of yourself—even hating yourself—is just as sinful. You are a creation of the Most High God, who crafted you in your mother’s womb (Ps. 139:13), who engraved you on the palms of his hands (Isa. 49:16), and who loved you enough—even before you were born—to send his Son to die in your place for your sins. When you think too lowly of yourself, you discredit all that—and you dishonor God.

He left before the sun came up but those still small hours lying in my bed, our bodies melded, I’ll never forget as long as I live. He kissed the inside of my palm, his touch gentle and his gaze soft. I wasn’t sure if it was a silent apology or a surrender of his ironclad heart.

IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR Are you aware that if you borrow a book from Kindle Unlimited and read in Page Flip mode the author doesn’t get paid? Amazon has recently confirmed this to authors, and there is no indication as to whether they intend to fix this or not. I hate mentioning this, but as my page reads continue to decline (despite the fact I have way more books enrolled in Kindle Unlimited), I may need to revisit my participation in the program going forward. I would never ask any reader to stop reading in Page Flip mode, as reading is highly personal, but I do want to ensure every reader is fully aware of all the facts, so they can make their own informed decision. Thanks for your attention. P.S. I did include this note at the front of the book, but Amazon continually keeps setting my books to start on Chapter One despite the fact I usually have a note at the front of each book to explain something important, and set the book to open on the title page. So, I’m copying this note here, not to be an annoying so and so but to ensure my readers have read this important notification. Thank you

Melrose says I should learn to meditate, to mentally place my thoughts of Isaiah on a cloud and blow them away with a gentle exhalation.

But I still think you should give Ms. Rothschild a chance. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.” “Well, I’d hate to see you get your hopes up,” Daddy says. “That’s life,” Kitty says. “Things don’t always work out. Look at Lara Jean and Peter.” I give her a dirty look. “Gee, thanks a lot.” “I’m just trying to make a point,” she says. Kitty goes over to Daddy and puts her arms around his waist. This kid is really pulling out all the stops. “Just think about it, Daddy. Tacos. Nuns. Nazis. And Ms. Rothschild.

GOD'S LOVE and POLITICS be like EITHER YOU LOVE ME or HATE ME, I LOVE JUSTICE

JULY 13 God said to Jonah, “Do you have a right to be angry?” Jonah 4:9 From the pen of Charles Spurgeon: Anger is not necessarily sinful in all cases, but it has such a tendency to get out of control that whenever it shows itself we should be quick to question its nature. We should ask ourselves, “Do you have a right to be angry?” Perhaps we can answer, “Yes,” for sometimes it is Elijah’s “fire from heaven” (2 Kings 1:10 KJV), yet often it is simply the sign of an out-of-control madman. To have anger over sin is a good thing because of the wrong sin commits against our good and gracious God. It is good to be angry with ourselves for remaining foolish after so much godly instruction or to be angry with others when the sole cause of our anger is the evil they are doing. Someone who is not angry over sinfulness is someone who is partaking in the sin, for sin is a loathsome, hateful thing and no renewed heart can patiently endure it. God Himself is angry with the wicked every day and His Word says, “Let those who love the LORD hate evil” (Ps. 97:10). Far more frequently, however, our anger is not commendable or justifiable, so our answer must be, “No, I don’t have a right to be angry.” Why do we get so enraged with our children, exasperated with our employees, and irritated with our friends? Is this type of anger honorable to our Christian testimony or glorifying to God? Isn’t this kind of anger evidence of our old evil heart seeking to regain control, and shouldn’t we resist it with all the power of our newborn nature? Many professing Christians allow their tempers free rein, as though it were useless to resist. Yet believers should remember that we must “in all these things [be] more than conquerors” (Rom. 8:37) or else we cannot be crowned. If we cannot control our temper, what has grace done for us? Someone once said that grace is often grafted into the most bitter crabapple tree stump. That may be true, but then its fruit will no longer be bitter. We must never use our natural weaknesses as an excuse for sin. Instead we must run to the cross and pray for the Lord to crucify our temper and renew in us the traits of gentleness and meekness that reflect His image.

If whatever I write hurts you, Congrats, you have reached an awesome level of meaning and understanding else if whatever I write irritates you, All the Best, you are yet to reach a primary level of knowing and meaning

Growing up, things like love and trust and healthy, functional relationships were foreign concepts to me. My parents never once told me they loved me. I didn’t have friends because, let’s face it, no kids wanted to hang out with the girl with greasy hair and smelly clothes that fit funny. We weren’t close with extended family. So I mostly kept to myself. Being alone was all I knew. I was all I had, really. That and books. Losing myself for hours in worlds that only existed in the confines of a paper jacket was my only escape from a life I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. Shunning contemporary stories in favor of classics, I always felt like I was the only one, but I wasn’t interested in reading books that felt like a present-day reality when I wanted nothing to do with my own. Anyway, my point is, I never knew what true happiness and fulfillment felt like until you. We had a connection that I know in my heart I’m never going to have with anyone else. You made me laugh. You made me smile. You made me cry (much as I hate to admit). You showed me I was still capable of giving love despite the fact that I’d never learned what it meant to accept it.Our time together may have been brief and tragically fleeting, but it left a lasting mark on my heart. I’m the woman I am today because of you, Kerouac. And for that reason alone, I’ll always hold you dear, and I’ll forever regret that it never worked out for us. Thank you for everything. I wish you all good things. Love, Absinthe PS – I think you should know that I never stopped loving you, not once. For whatever it’s worth, I just wanted you to know that you were loved

There's a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them.

Dom needs to learn there’s things in life you can’t control. And I’m one of them.

But I know myself. Know that I can’t stand bracelets or even hairbands around my wrists. As much as I’d love and cherish the device, I’d eventually take the watch off. Then I would put it down somewhere, and it would disappear one day, mixed in with my clutter. Another piece of Josh would vanish. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Dom would never be so careless. He probably has a custom-made watch stand by his bedside and cleaning supplies to make sure the glass face doesn’t smudge. “Keep it,” I grind out. “He left it to you.” “Maddie—” “Leave me alone. I’m puzzling.” I put my headphones back on, restart my book, and command my eyes to only look at the pieces in front of me. Still, I can sense when Dom stands and moves away. He stays in the main area for a stretch, moving around the kitchen. Probably correcting the microwave and oven clocks. Eventually, he disappears down the short hallway to the bedrooms.

Maddie,” he growls. And damn him for the way that makes my nipples perk up. My areolas are so happy, I bet they’ve started glowing like the larva. Damn bioluminescent nipples!

No, that night, after weeks of us spending almost every minute of the day together, Dom didn’t use me. He only gave. Gave me kisses. Gave me hot touches. Hell, the guy even gave me my first orgasm.

There’s a teenage girl with the family and when we all first gathered, she gaped at Dom like he was the personification of Taylor Swift tickets.

Josh would have a camera that could. My brother captured the most gorgeous wildlife photos, and I’m not just saying that because I’m his sister. Josh won awards. He got hired by big name publications and companies that flew him all over the world. His success can be gleaned simply from the large number that was left to Dom and me in his will to fund these ash-spreading excursions. But what I loved most about my brother’s photos was the way he’d send them to me. Whenever Josh took a shot he was particularly proud of, he’d commission a puzzle made out of it and mail the pieces to me in a bag. I wouldn’t know what the shot was until I pieced everything together. The walls of my condo are covered in framed finished puzzles of his work.

At first, I thought that made him a good man. Someone to trust and give my heart to and pin my pathetic hopes on. But even at nineteen, I should’ve known better. I’d already learned that the only person I could trust to not toss me aside was my brother. All those beautiful things Dom gave me? They didn’t mean anything. Because that night was only a favor. A thank-you for helping his family out. A I know you’ve had a crush on me for your entire life, so here, I’ll touch you once before I lock down the woman I actually want to be with. To him, I was a responsibility. A charity case. A box on a to-do list to check off. Well, he did me, and I hate him for it. And I hate that my body can’t seem to get on board the hating train with my brain. My body would like to be added to his to-do list again, with a few extra check boxes next to the task.

Dom’s lips tightened, and I continued chuckling as I wandered over to the swinging bench and pulled my latest paperback from my bag. The yellowed pages were a soothing soft brush against my fingers and the spine let out a comforting creak that melded with the squeak of the sturdy chains holding the padded bench suspended from the porch ceiling. It was one of those large swinging benches, almost the size of the mattress in my dorm room, and covered in throw pillows.

Dom cleared his throat. “Adam says you read all day.” He waved toward the far end of the porch. “You could read here. If you want. You like the swinging bench, right?

I’ve only seen her use one on our bookstore outings, and that’s more about protecting the precious pages than staying dry herself.

she gaped at Dom like he was the personification of Taylor Swift tickets.

Maddie’s Travel Playlist Hate/Love-Your-Dead-Brother’s-Best-Friend Vibes 1. “traitor” by Olivia Rodrigo 2. “Ghost Of You” by 5 Seconds of Summer 3. “Wishful Drinking” by Ingrid Andress (with Sam Hunt) 4. “How To Be Lonely” by Rita Ora 5. “Trying Not To” by Alana Springsteen (feat. Roman Alexander) 6. “Still into You” by Paramore 7. “Me Myself and Why” by Alana Springsteen 8. “Long Haul” by Ian Munsick 9. “it’s been a year” by Ashley Cooke 10. “Death of a Bachelor” by Panic! At The Disco 11. “aftermath” by vaultboy 12. “Try Losing One” by Tyler Braden 13. “All You Had To Do Was Stay (Taylor’s Version)” by Taylor Swift 14. “Twice” by Canaan Cox (feat. Shaylen) 15. “Locksmith” by Sadie Jean 16. “Homesick” by Alana Springsteen 17. “Love Is a Wild Thing” by Kacey Musgraves 18. “Ghost” by Justin Bieber

You're adorable. And frustrating. I think what you meant to say was gorgeous and intriguing. Cute and aggravating. Effervescent and captivating. All those, he relents. Plus sexy as fuck.

When you’re in the room,” he says, “you’re all I see.

I mock his low voice because I will never be a fully mature adult.

Dom, do you want to fuck me?” Shit. I meant to say “kiss.” Really, I did. I swear!

Because I tried to literally lock thoughts of you away, too. It never worked. How I feel about you isn’t going away.

Now I think I’m ready for life to slow down.

We’re going to say goodbye.

Last goodbye. Don’t think about it. Last of Josh. Don’t think about it.

This is the goodbye letter.

I think you two were meant for each other.

Last goodbye. This is the last goodbye.

Ah, discomfort covered by sarcasm. My old friend.

Can’t a girl properly ghost people these days? Next time I’ll buy a van and go off-grid.

I messed up. I will again. You had me on a pedestal, and I hurt you when I fell off it. I can’t promise you perfection, much as I want to be that man for you. What I can swear is that I will never be the one to leave. I’m yours, Maddie Sanderson. And I’m ready to wait, as long as it takes.

said he was figuring out how to fit two puzzle pieces together.

No. I’m saying if I’d had one day—only one—it would’ve been worth it. To be with Josh, loving him like I’d always wanted, a single day would have been a gift. And I got a year.” She smiles wide, her eyes full of tears that slowly overflow and spill down her cheeks. “Yeah, I wish I’d had a lifetime. And yeah, it hurts more than I can describe. Two years, six months, three days, and I still miss him every day. But it would’ve been worse if I’d never had him at all.” One day.

Give me one day. Tomorrow. To love you. And at the end of the day, you can decide if you want to give me one more.

I love you. I don’t want just one day. I want them all.

If I have one day left, or thousands, I want you to be in every one of them.

I can’t promise not to die, Maddie. But I can swear that while I’m living, I will always be loving you.

I’m not afraid of the days with you in them,” I whisper. “I’m afraid of the ones I might have without you.

We take the people Josh loved everywhere.

Nothing about these last few hours was beautiful or life-changing. This was just a new version of the same old disappointment.

Like a moth, I’m drawn toward the

fire, standing in the radius of its glow.

If you’re inebriated, I’m not about to take advantage of you. No matter

how badly I want to suck on that pouty lip you’re sticking out right now.