Rom Com Love Quotes

I wish you could see yourself the way I see you" - Adam

He’d clearly never seen a rom-com or read a romance novel in his life.

Oh, sorry, love. I was just getting out of the shower when I heard this loud commotion in front of my door.” Jake gave her a sloppy grin. “I didn’t realize there was a dress code when coming to the aid of a beautiful neighbor. I’ll keep it in mind for the next time I come running.

He didn't want it, but he wasn't about to blow that spark off as nothing either. In fact, he was going to treat it with care and respect. Like a bomb.

Being loud and obnoxious was the second best thing Landrys did. Loving was the first.

The Landry family had as much romance in their blood as red blood cells. They were genetically programmed and then nurtured from the crib to believe in love and fate and soulmates and romance. Some of them just went with it. Some of them fought it. But none of them were immune.

Why do you keep saying that?” “Saying what?” “ ‘Fake dating.’ Like it’s a thing.” “Because it is. Don’t you watch rom-coms?

If you say another word about the woman I love, He’d clearly never seen a rom-com or read a romance novel in his life.

Isn’t that love? Wanting what’s best for the other person, even if it breaks your heart?

Talking on the phone is the hardest, most stressful thing in the world, and I can't do it with the nice lady who schedules my dental cleanings, let alone with Adam Carlsen.

Xuan being there didn’t make any sense. This wasn’t a fairy tale. Handsome boys don’t just magically appear screaming your name the moment you need them.

Is he blackmailing you? Did he find out that you're an aberration and pee in the shower?

Peter and I have been working our way down our movie list, which consists of my picks (favorite movies of mine that he’s never seen), his picks, (favorite movies of his that I’ve never seen), and movies neither of us have seen. Aliens was Peter’s pick, and it’s turning out to be quite good. And even though once upon a time Peter claimed he didn’t like rom coms, he was very into Sleepless in Seattle, which I was relieved for, because I just don’t see how I could be with someone who doesn’t like Sleepless in Seattle.

Adam." She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "There will be only one bed." He frowned. "No, as I said it's a double-" "It's not. It won't be. There will be only one bed, for sure."He gave her a puzzled look. "I got the booking confirmation the other day. I can forward it to you if you want; it says that-" "It doesn't matter what it says. It's always one bed." He stared at her, perplexed, and she sighed and leaned helplessly against the back of her chair. He'd clearly never seen a rom-com or read a romance novel in his life.

In the Pretty Woman shopping scene, it’s not really about the clothes, or how much they cost, or how great she looks. When Vivian leaves the store, she’s not only a pretty woman, she’s a different woman. It gets me every time.

I'm sorry about the socks, by the way." She winced. "I know it's a controversial topic.

So, tell me, Love,” Dad asked as I stared at my new friend with beady eyes. “What kind of person do you want to be in life? A butterfly?” He paused. “Or a caterpillar?

Romance novels, rom-coms, nontragic love stories—they all run on a blissful sense that we’re moving toward something better. Percentage-wise, the majority of clues writers drop in romance novels don’t give you things to dread. They give you things to look forward to.

Still here?” he drawls when he notices me. “Still a presumptuous asshole?” I snap back. I expect him to double down on the nasty replies, to crush me with spite, so you can imagine my surprise when he clamps his mouth shut, the corners of his lips twitching into a small smile. His pale eyes rake over my face for a second too long, and I squirm under his undivided attention. Why, oh why, does he have to look like that? Low blow, Life, low blow.

How refreshing, to talk with someone who’d watched a rom-com. Or ten.

They proved their love for God, not with words or with songs of worship, but with pure, undefiled obedience.

Caroline nodded. "I understand that. The bayou is a huge part of your life and the local lifestyle. And people might come in here because of the bayou, but they don't fall in love with it and come back because of that. They fall in love and come back because they feel like a part of the family. Because they feel welcome and accepted here. That's what all of this represents." She gestured to encompass all of the photographs they had hanging on the wall. "I think these photographs are key. The posters and sports banners are great, but these photographs need to stay for sure.

Olive felt her shoulders sag with relief and had to resist the urge to fist-pump. Take that, you stupid rom-coms. She may have fallen for the dude she’d begun to fake-date like some born-yesterday fool, but at least she wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him any time soon.

You really want to know?” He drags out the suspense. “Yes.” I grow restless. “Spill.” “Well, for starters… most guys our age aren’t looking to date.” He elaborates. “They just want to fuck around. And those who do want to date are only looking for a girl to make them feel good about themselves.” “Meaning?” “Meaning they want her to laugh at their jokes, stroke their egos, give good head and… that’s pretty much it.” He draws a small smile out of me. “So, when guys like that see a girl like you, a girl who doesn’t look easy or desperate, they get intimidated. Label her high-maintenance and run like hell. You’re beauty and brains, Vee. You’re an immature high school boy’s worst nightmare.

One of the greatest tragedies of human life is that, unlike in rom-coms, love is often not reciprocated in real life.

To Meatball From your best friend, Ivan

Love is hard to look at.

Because it is. Don’t you watch rom-coms?

You would rather watch a rom-com about a witch and a plumber falling in love than attend a costume party with celebrities.” “One hundred percent. As long as I'm watching it with you.

I loved those nights. They taught me that heartbreak, like most things, was a solvable puzzle. A checklist could guide a person through mourning. There was an actionable plan for moving on.

° I no longer saw God's commandments concerning sex and marriage as a prohibition, but as His loving protection. ° I no longer thought of sexual purity as a rule, but as a desired virtue. °I no longer was attracted to the guys that treated girls like commodities, but was now attracted to men of character who modeled Jesus' humility and self-sacrifice. °I no longer saw my body as something to use to gain a guys attention; I now viewed it as God's holy temple.

I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I spin to leave. “No fucking way.” It clicks in his mind. “Little Vee?” Here he is. “You’re that girl Finn and I used to…” He doesn’t complete his sentence, but I know all too well what he was going to say. “Annoy? Tease? Torture? Why, yes, that would be me. Did you seriously just figure that out? A bit slow, are we?” I snark. My outburst only seems to amuse him. “Look, in my defense, your mom only ever called you ‘Vee.’ I thought it was short for Vicky or Vivian or something. And it was ten years ago. I can’t even remember what I had for dinner last night.” “Whatever.” I shrug. “Shit, I’ve got to say, Vee.” He gives me a once-over. “Puberty did you a solid.” My cheeks combust. “Wish I could say the same about you,” I lie through my teeth. Xavier smiles at my failed attempt to deny the undeniable. Let’s not pretend like puberty didn’t do every female on earth a solid when Xavier Emery went from “cute” to “sinfully hot” in the span of a summer. “I think you mispronounced thank you.” He flashes a smug grin that makes me want to knee him where it hurts.

I could be worthy of her. I would give up everything for her. If she really needed me to marry her to keep the crown and to prevent her from marrying the lecherous Prince of Valdonia, I would. I would do anything for her. Including marrying her when she sees it as duty. I’d have a lifetime to convince her it’s love. To win her over.

I fell in love with his childlike quirks, in the perfect weather, on October first. I fell in love when he smiled his beautiful smile, on the drive through the moonlight. I fell in love when his eyes shined, putting to shame the diamond sky. I was wonderstruck, blushing all the way home. I fell in love in a way, that was sweeter than rom-com.

As though he’s reading my mind, he grits out a pained, irritated “Fuck, it should be me.” I squeeze my thighs together to relieve the pressure between my legs. Sorry. Better luck next time. The pulse only grows stronger, and I know there is no stopping my unraveling. “Why the fuck isn’t it me, L?” His voice has this carnal edge to it. “Why am I not the one touching you right now? Fucking why?” I visualize it. Imagine it. See his tongue teasing my pierced nipple, and a soft moan shoots out of my mouth before I can stop it. This seems to trigger him because he groans a low, desperate “Christ, just tell me who you are. Fuck the pact. Fuck the secrets. Fuck it all. Just tell me who are you, L. Please. Let this be real.” The sentiment fractures my heart into a billion tiny pieces. I want it to be real, too.

In that instant, I even forgot my own name, until I heard it being whispered from his lips. “Cassie,” he said, pulling away. I wanted this—dreamed of it, but now that it was happen- ing, I didn’t know how I’d ever want anything else. I wanted more. I wanted him. As he held my gaze, I realized that I had never felt more alive. And I knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning of our journey together.

This is not the “rom-com” depiction of love. Authentic love doesn’t always feel “good” or even romantic. The cycles of emotional addiction that we commonly associate with romance aren’t activated, so it doesn’t have the charge of excitement born of fear of abandonment or withdrawal of love and support. It is a grounded state. You do not need to perform in a certain way or hide parts of yourself to receive love. You will still feel bored or unsettled. You will still find yourself attracted to other people and may even mourn the loss of the single life. Conscious relationships aren’t fairy tales. There’s no “You complete me.” There’s no smile and poof!—living happily ever after. Like everything else you have encountered so far, authentic love requires work. The path forward is to become aware of the role of self-betrayal in your trauma bonds and the role that you can play in honoring your own needs.

Thus is the defining characteristic of gay millennials: we straddle the pre-Glee and post-Glee worlds. We went to high school when faggot wasn’t even considered an F-word, when being a lesbian meant boys just didn’t want you, when being nonbinary wasn’t even a remote option. We grew up without queer characters in our cartoons or Nickelodeon or Disney or TGIF sitcoms. We were raised in homophobia, came of age as the world changed around us, and are raising children in an age where it’s never been easier to be same-sex parents. We’re both lucky and jealous. As the state of gay evolved culturally and politically, we were old enough to see it and process it and not take it for granted–old enough to know what the world was like without it. Despite the success of Drag Race, the existence of lesbian Christmas rom-coms, and openly transgender Oscar nominees, we haven’t moved on from the trauma of growing up in a culture that hates us. We don’t move on from trauma, really. We can’t really leave it in the past. It becomes a part of us, and we move forward with it. For LGBTQ+ millennials, our pride is couched in painful memories of a culture repulsed and frightened by queerness. That makes us skittish. It makes us loud. It makes us fear that all this progress, all this tolerance , all of Billy Porter's red carpet looks can vanish as quickly as it all appeared.

fell for her the first time I met her, when we were just children. Within moments, she’d grabbed my heart straight out of my chest. Metaphorically, obviously, and she’s held it ever since. She has no idea, of course. That’s the thing about her. She’s winsome and charismatic, like a star burning so bright you can’t NOT stare. But too humble to see herself that way. Seraf is as angelic as her name. Gorgeous, with the kind of beauty that shines through from somewhere deep inside. Yeah, I know. That sounds like straight out of a cheesy love story. The thing is, it’s true.

Everyone expected me to fall apart after our breakup. Instead I just felt empty. I honestly couldn’t stand their pity. So I came here to get away—and heal.” “I bet you’re really angry with him. You guys were together for a long time.” “I was. But the more I think about it and analyze it, it seems like something bigger—like a phantom dark energy was repelling us, like bug spray. I don’t think we were ever meant to be together, and the acceleration of the Big Rip just in- creased over time. I think it was bound to happen eventually, I just wish it didn’t end the way it did.” “That sounds an awful lot like Fate.” “No,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s just science.

Oh, well, I know that Libby." He rolls his eyes. "I've never met anyone more committed to, well, life that you are." "Really?" I swallow rather hard. "Even though I keep on screwing my life up?" "Sweetheart, precisely because you keep screwing your life up! I mean look at you. You had the crappiest career eve in the world before you turned everything around and became this shit-hot jewellery designer. You set your head on fire with a cigarette and ended up being utterly adored by the guy who had to put you out... And I do adore you, by the way," he adds, in a nonchalant sort of way, "in case you ever had wondered. Oh, and then there's your love of life. Loads of girls would have just sunk...

Tom Arnold is already waiting at the bar when I arrive, and Vanessa purrs loudly when she spots him. I ignore the slut and stand next to him, waiting for him to notice me, bopping my head slightly to Andy Williams singing Can’t Take My Eyes Off You. At last, he turns and smiles at me. “Pip! You look lovely,” he tells me with an appreciative glance. I simper. “So do you,” I tell him, attempting to bat my eyelids like Vanessa would. “Have you got something in your eye?” he frowns. “Contact lens is playing up,” I mutter. “I didn’t know you wore contacts,” he says in surprise. “All the better to see you with, my dear,” I respond in a deep voice, and he gives me a strange look. I clear my throat. “It’s a free bar tonight, isn’t it?

The ion and dust tails seemed to be pointing away from the crackling fire of the sun. Looking more closely, one tail was gray mixed with yellow and white and the second was blue fading into teal. The color change was softer than melting wax. A bright green coma glowed around the center. I felt as though I was seeing magic for the first time as the warmth from our great star heated up the comet, causing it to spew dust and gasses into a giant glowing head larger than most planets. The comet’s magnificence and grandeur stirred me, much like a transcendent piece of music that envelops one’s soul. “I’ve never seen a comet before,” I confessed, my voice filled with a mix of wonder and emotion. I could feel a tear form in my eye. I blinked it away. Bello, pulchram, bela, hermoso, yafah, ómorfi, Meilì. I could express the concept of beauty in numerous languages, but none of them truly captured the essence of my feelings as I gazed at the comet. It was a sight of indescribable beauty, as if musical notes had been sketched across the canvas of the night sky. I would never forget the comet—similar to Xuan, exciting, rare, and stunning. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Xuan whispered. I looked at Xuan, but instead of looking at the sky, Xuan was staring at me. He stood, his hands jammed into his pockets, as he quickly turned his gaze to wander over the peaceful metropolis.

And she’s here. And said he’s here. And she’s going to tell him I’m here.” Avery waves her hands frantically. “Shh . . . or everyone will hear!” We stare at one another in silence, not blinking. Okay, I blinked, but it’s not really a contest.

When I watched rom-coms and saw main characters storm off from the person they once loved, I sometimes couldn't handle it. It always seemed so silly not to just give someone a chance. I had no idea how this could feel, though. I didn't know that the thing that would seem silliest is the idea of givine someone the chance to hurt you again.

A physical-spiritual concussion, like a jolt of electricity to the heart. It was like something from a rom-com script so cliché-ridden that it gets sent to turnaround (the film industry term for a project that a film studio decides not to develop further).

You're not the guy. That's the whole point. Neither of us is the guy. In the lesbian rom-com, we would discuss all of our feelings until our throats dry up and our bodies shrivel.

I expect to spend every day with my best friend. I expect to sit in good moods and bad moods and comfort the only person who’s ever truly accepted me for me. I expect to be able to tell everyone that this beautiful, intelligent, amazing girl is mine and I’m hers. I expect to watch cheesy Rom-Coms with you, to sit through hours of your stupid John Cusack movies, to always wonder if you could ever love me as much as you love him–” “I

You could not have known he was going to leave Spicy Brunette at the altar for Cute Blondie unless you'd seen this before. I think I've been played," Benny huffs as he finishes off the last fry. "Think about what you're saying, Ben Kenobi. Spicy versus cute. We're never supposed to like the spicy woman in movies, not for the romantic hero to end up with. He's supposed to go with the aw-shucks, girl-next-door type who was right in front of his face all along. Spicy gal never had a chance, bless her heart." He scrunches his nose, mulling this over. "Then I have a dilemma, see," he says, and his feigned thoughtfulness makes me smirk. "Oh, do you?" "Yeah, because what if I'm into this girl who's cute but also spicy? Is she too good to be true? Can I really have one or the other?

There was a surprising amount of overlap between cute rom-com disaster scenes and your average horror movie disaster. Of course in rom-coms there is only sexual tension; in horror there's a knife-wielding serial killer, so the tone is subtly different, you know?

All I would prove is that I can fuck you and you’ll put me in the same place you put all the others. I’m going to love you. That’s the plan. I’ll kiss you and hold you every night. I’ll touch you and we’ll play. But you’re not getting little Theo until I trust that you have good intentions toward me.” She growled his way, letting him know how frustrated she was. Of all the men in the world, she got the girl. “You’ve watched way too many rom coms, Taggart. If you’re not going to throw down with me, get out of my office so I can get ready. We’ve got an op, you know. Maybe you can sit around and write our names in a notebook with hearts and shit, but I have to prep.

I love to read. Rom-coms, sports romance, traumances. Romance of any kind really. I love forgetting that I’m reading, like I’m in the story, in the book, so intently in the moment that I forget who I really am. No other feeling relates to being completely lost in a book,

you at dinner. I love it.”  “Absolutely not. No television. No catfights. No.” I pause. “But I have been searching for a wife.”  Callum’s head snaps up. “Since when do you want to get married? I thought you were dead-set against the idea.”  “No--I’m simply not interested in any of the women Mum and Dad are throwing at me.”  Callum shoots a sideways glance at

And you shouldn't be---" I say, looking up and taking in his appearance. So damn hot. My throat catches. Words do not form. He's sexier than the ceviche I'm planning on making---slick and smooth, cool and hot. Confession: I may have a problem binge-watching rom-coms and steamy romances, hoping for my own meet-cute. If they happen in the movies, why not in real life? When I'm not in the kitchen, I watch them all, inhaling the happy endings---from Sleepless in Seattle to Pretty Woman to Sixteen Candles, the latter so politically incorrect and cringe-worthy today but made up for with the drool-worthy hotness that is Jake Ryan. Something about this guy reminds me of Keanu Reeves, with his razor-sharp cheekbones, mildly unkempt black hair that nearly touches his shoulders, two-day scruff, penetrating hazel eyes, and, from what I can tell---dressed in a casual but elegant fitted black suit---a buff body. I may have developed a slight Keanu obsession after I saw him in Always Be My Maybe, the story of him being the temporary love interest of an ambitious chef. Even though he played a douchebag version of himself, he was funny and hot as hell. Normally, I only salivate over recipes, but this feast for the eyes is clearly an exception.

Ethanol plus carbon dioxide was like a demon spawn pounding against the frontal lobes of my head from the previous night at the bar. Somewhere in the city there was a church bell ringing, and—oh, not a bell. That was my phone. My head pounded and I felt dizzy, like I was spinning in circles on a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Slowly, I opened an eye to try and find my cell phone. I groaned as I reached for the blue- and-silver-plated device on my nightstand. The spins from alcohol sucked.

My ex-boyfriend was dramatic, adventurous, and selfish. At one time I thought I’d do anything to make him happy. I thought I might even love him, but I’d never told him that. He had me under his spell. That was before I found him sleeping with someone else. The three-year enchantment was broken after that. The magic lifted. Finding my boyfriend and a high school friend in bed together was horrific. Made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for him, and it took me a while to realize that wasn’t true. The aftermath of our breakup left me feeling utterly defeated, and my self-confidence plummeted to unimaginable depths—perhaps as low as the wreckage of a sunken ship or the depths of the Mariana Trench, which is known to be the deepest point in the ocean. It was that bad.

Xuan tucked his arm underneath my neck. “Now sleep. I’m here, and you’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.” “Promise?” “I promise. Yǒu yuán qiān lǐ lái xiāng huì.” “What does that mean?” I muttered sleepily, my eyelids refusing to open. “It means that even from thousands of miles away, Fate has intervened,” he said softly and wrapped his arm around me.

The ion and dust tails seemed to be pointing away from the crackling fire of the sun. Looking more closely, one tail was gray mixed with yellow and white and the second was blue fading into teal. The color change was softer than melting wax. A bright green coma glowed around the center. I felt as though I was seeing magic for the first time as the warmth from our great star heated up the comet, causing it to spew dust and gasses into a giant glowing head larger than most planets. The comet’s magnificence and grandeur stirred me, much like a transcendent piece of music that envelops one’s soul. “I’ve never seen a comet before,” I confessed, my voice filled with a mix of wonder and emotion. I could feel a tear form in my eye. I blinked it away. Bello, pulchram, bela, hermoso, yafah, ómorfi, Meilì. I could express the concept of beauty in numerous languages, but none of them truly captured the essence of my feelings as I gazed at the comet. It was a sight of indescribable beauty, as if musical notes had been sketched across the canvas of the night sky. I would never forget the comet—similar to Xuan, exciting, rare, and stunning. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Xuan whispered. I looked at Xuan, but instead of looking at the sky, Xuan was staring at me. He stood, his hands jammed into his pockets, as he quickly turned his gaze to wander over the peaceful metropolis.

Sometimes when I look back and analyze my past, I think the catalyst behind this story was my passion for science. I remember looking at seaweed and pond water microorganisms under a microscope during my Physical Science class my freshman year in high school and I felt exhilarated. My curiosity was awoken and I found myself instantly in love with the subject. Then, during my sophomore year in Biology, I single handedly dissected a cow’s eye and heart while my lab partner—and half the class—were busy passing out or vomiting in the bathroom, and that was it. The road ahead was clear. Set. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life.

I blamed seaweed and pond water microorganisms, a cow’s eyeball, and my teachers, the real culprits, for starting me down this path. Just like accident investigators put together a timeline, I call this the causation analysis of my love life.

To the skeptics, perhaps the events that are to follow were just a coincidence and nothing more than a series of random accidents that led me to where I am today. But to the lovers and poets and dreamers, perhaps you might agree that the story about to unfold is something more. You might even agree that there are times when coincidences are so powerful that they don’t really seem like coincidences anymore. Times when you come across events that seem too strange, or too strong, to be anything other than Fate—a grand design that incorporates everything from the career paths we take, the friends we meet along the way, and the partners we choose to spend our lives with. Times like these make you question that maybe nothing in this world happens by accident. Maybe everything really does happen for a reason, as some prewritten destiny slowly takes shape and shoves you down a path—or in my case, a mountain side.

A few years later, Raylan and I went our separate ways. He joined the military and I started the science program at the university. It was after our breakup that the thread of my life, woven from Fate’s loom, finally started to take shape. And it was because of science that I met him. The one.

After the imposed visions of my parents, I spent my last moments thinking about science—an equation, to be precise: F = mv2/2d. I know it’s not possible to cheat death, but I hoped for a last-minute ingenious MacGyver moment where I could somehow improvise or find my way out of this mess. But it didn’t matter how many scientific equations—or terms like force of impact, kinetic energy, and all three of Newton’s laws of motions—swam through my useless brain at that moment. The chance of me surviving was highly unlikely—less than 5%. And none of the years I spent studying or memorizing scientific facts or mathematical equations would save me now.

The answer to why the equation of 1 + 1 + 1 = 0 was that Raylan didn’t want the real me. He only thought he did, and therefore the solution to the problem ended up being a simple subtraction equation.

You’re mine.” His hand slid up the plane of my torso while he lowered himself over me, his hips nestling against mine. Yes, I thought. I had been his since Colombia, and he had been mine from the start. I gasped a little at the touch, as his body fit across mine. My breathing was ragged and savage as he leaned down to kiss me, waiting for me to respond. “I love you. I’m yours,” I said.

I always believed that love was supposed to bring you pleasure, not pain,” I say. “So, if you don’t feel completely happy, it isn’t real.”
 “Oh, come on, Luce. We’re fed all the Disney bullshit and rom-com ideals. Love isn’t a Xanax. It’s a process that can be hard, and dirty, and demanding. It doesn’t fall from the sky, you have to work on it. And I’m not saying that anyone should stay in a toxic relationship, but you shouldn’t run away because of the slightest inconvenience, either.

In the quiet evening, though, I’d catch an old Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts rom-com on the television. And I can tell you this: no one in the world wants to be single during a rom-com. No one in the world says, Thank God nobody looks at me that way. Thank God nobody sprints through an airport and shouts “I love you” just before going through security.

Proving how difficult it was to write a rom-com was one thing, and I was confident Gus would see that, but getting him to understand what I loved about the genre—that reading and writing it was nearly as all-consuming and transformative as actually falling in love—would be a different challenge entirely.

It’d been a hot minute since things had ended with Finley, but if I was so needy for affection that I was fictitiously putting myself in place of a cat to get some attention, then things might be more dire than I’d suspected.

This is not the "rom-com" depiction of love. Authentic love doesn't always feel "good" or even romantic. The cycles of emotional addiction that we commonly associate with romance aren't activated, so it doesn't have the charge of excitement born of fear of abandonment or withdrawal of love and support. It is a grounded state. You do not need to perform in a certain way or hide parts of yourself to receive love. You will still feel bored or unsettled. You will still find yourself attracted to other people and may even mourn the loss of the single life. Conscious relationships aren't fairy tales. There's no "You complete me." There's no smile and poof! -- living happily ever after. Like everything else you have encountered so far, authentic love requires work. The path forward is to become aware of the role of self-betrayal in your trauma bonds and the role that you can play in honoring your own needs.

What in the ever-loving fuck made you think that I wasn’t completely in awe of your body?

Look at her again, and I break your arm. Talk to her again, and I break your leg. Touch her again, and someone will have to scrape you off the floor. Am I clear?

A blind squirrel occasionally gets an acorn.

I love you, bunny. My love doesn’t need you to tend to it. It exists no matter what you do. It is a love reliant on your presence, not your actions. Forgive me. You are helpless against it.

He once believed that friends stayed friends forever, that love was like a rom-com, that bad things only happened to bad people. Today, she got to witness the moment he learned the lie that hard work always gets rewarded.

Seriously. I’ll wager you aren’t ten years older than me.” “I bet I am.” “So what? So when I’m eighty, you’ll be ninety. It’s just a number.” I relaxed on a pile of pillows on my end of the boat. Eyes closed, I enjoyed the sunshine’s warmth on my face with the intermittent quack of ducks floating on the cool breeze. “I’m just saying, I’m not sure your eighty-year-old self will enjoy being chased by a gaggle of ninety-year-old women at the old folks’ home.” “And I’m just saying if you were there, I’d let you catch me.

Yes, you are still grieving for the fact that Olly is not loving you as you love him. But death is no solution. Certainly not this horrible, messy death. Could you at least not consider possible option that is not leaving you looking diabolical at funeral?" Oh, for the love of God.

I’ll write you a note a day,” Peter says suddenly, with gusto. “That’ll drive her ass crazy.” I write down, Peter will write Lara Jean one note every day. Peter leans in. “Write down that you have to go to some parties with me. And write down no rom coms.” “Who said anything about rom coms? Not every girl wants to watch rom coms.” “I can just tell that you’re the kind of girl who does.” I’m annoyed that he has this perception of me, and even more annoyed that he’s right. I write, NO DUMB ACTION MOVIES. “Then what does that leave us with?” Peter demands. “Superhero movies, horror movies, period films, documentaries, foreign films--” Peter makes a face, grabs the pen and paper from me, and writes down, NO FOREIGN FILMS. He also writes, Lara Jean will make Peter’s picture her phone wallpaper. “And vice versa!” I say. I point my phone at him. “Smile.” Peter smiles, and ugh, it’s annoying how handsome he is. Then he reaches for his phone and I stop him. “Not right now. My hair looks sweaty and gross.” “Good point,” he says, and I want to punch him. “Can you also write down that under no circumstances can either of us tell anyone the truth?” I ask him. “The first rule of Fight Club,” Peter says knowingly. “I’ve never seen that movie.” “Of course you haven’t,” he says, and I make a face at him. Also: mental note, watch Fight Club.

No matter how many times I go back and forth between dreaming and dreading it, love always calls me back home. Through tender love songs and cute love stories and quirky rom-coms (which I actually don’t watch too often), it always manages to renew my faith in its existence. I may not have it yet, but I believe it’s out there somewhere waiting to find me or be found. That will always give me hope.

I love you to the stars and the moon and the next galaxy,” he says. “Will you do me the great honor of being my fiancée?

Real love doesn’t meet you at your best.” Leo laughs. “When does it meet you?” “It meets you in your mess.

We fell in love the way you should fall asleep…slowly. We eased into it, made it our own.

And even though once upon a time Peter claimed he didn’t like rom coms, he was very into Sleepless in Seattle, which I was relieved for, because I just don’t see how I could be with someone who doesn’t like Sleepless in Seattle.

However, the words died on my tongue when I stepped fully onto the rooftop and saw what he’d planned for our first date. Oh my God. A giant standing TV screen dominated one side of the rooftop, kitty-corner to a table covered with every snack one could think of. There were white ceramic dishes filled with M&M’s, pretzels, gummy bears, and other candies I couldn’t identify at this distance; plates groaning with chips, cookies, and sundry snacks; massive bowls containing six different types of popcorn; and a full charcuterie board. A champagne bucket sat next to tea, coffee, and three bottles of wine (one red, one white, one rosé). Beneath the table, a glass-fronted minifridge boasted an assortment of water, juice, and soda. Area rugs and potted plants scattered across the floor, lending the scene a cozy feel. Strategically placed candles and the canopy of lights overhead illuminated the rooftop in lieu of the setting sun while portable heat lamps warded off the cold. However, the real star of the show was the giant mattress laid out in front of the screen. Piled high with pillows, cushions, and cashmere blankets, it looked so cozy I wanted to dive right into the middle and never get up. The entire setup was so cheesy, it looked like something out of a rom-com. And I loved it.

Romance novels, rom-coms, non-tragic love stories—they all run on a blissful sense that we’re moving toward something better. Percentage-wise, the majority of clues writers drop in romance novels don’t give you things to dread. They give you things to look forward to. This, right here—more than anything else—is why people love them. The banter, the kissing, the tropes, even the spice … that’s all just extra. It’s the structure—that “predictable” structure—that does it. Anticipating that you’re heading toward a happy ending lets you relax and look forward to better things ahead. And there’s a name for what you’re feeling when you do that. Hope. Sometimes I see people grasping for a better word than predictable to describe a romance. They’ll say, ‘It was predictable—but in a good way.’ I see what they’re going for. But I’m not sure it needs pointing out that over the course of a love story … people fell in love. I mean: Of course they did! I don’t think it’s possible to write a love story where the leads getting together at the end is a surprise. And even if it were, why would you want to? The anticipation—the blissful, delicious, oxytocin-laden, yearning-infused, building sense of anticipation—is the point. It’s the cocktail of emotions we all came there to feel. I propose we stop using the hopelessly negative word predictable to talk about love stories and start using anticipation. As in: 'This love story really created a fantastic feeling of anticipation.' Structurally, thematically, psychologically—love stories create hope and then use it as fuel. Two people meet—and then, over the course of three hundred pages, they move from alone to together. From closed to open. From judgy to understanding. From cruel to compassionate. From needy to fulfilled. From ignored to seen. From misunderstood to appreciated. From lost to found. Predictably. That’s not a mistake. That’s a guarantee of the genre: Things will get better. And you, the reader, get to be there for it. It’s a gift the love story gives you.