Stephanie Quotes

For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home.

Tell the truth, or someone will tell it for you.

The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.

Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?

I’ve been fighting to be who I am all my life. What’s the point of being who I am, if I can’t have the person who was worth all the fighting for?

I know you aren't perfect. But it's a person's imperfections that make them perfect for someone else.

French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.

I wish friends held hands more often, like the children I see on the streets sometimes. I'm not sure why we have to grow up and get embarrassed about it.

Is that a bulletproof vest? See, now that's so insulting. That's like saying I'm not smart enough to shoot you in the head." Eddie DeChooch

Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.

I'm saying I'm in love with you! I've been in love with you this whole bleeding year!

Boys turns girls into such idiots.

What we wait around a lifetime for with one person, we can find in a moment with someone else.

Why is it that the right people never wind up together? Why are people so afraid to leave a relationship, even if they know it's a bad one?

Every person has the power to change their fate if they are brave enough to fight for what they desire more than anything.

I mean, really. Who sends their kid to boarding school? It's so Hogwarts. Only mine doesn't have cute boy wizards or magic candy or flying lessons.

I wish for the thing that is best for me.

When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it’s not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end.

Girl scouts didn't teach me what to do with emotionally unstable drunk boys.

Just because something isn't practical doesn't mean it's not worth creating. Sometimes beauty and real-life magic are enough.

Every good story needs a villain. But the best villains are the ones you secretly like.

I'm a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece.

My heart only ever had one thought, one want. One need. Despite all, in spite of all...All my heart has ever wanted is you.

Soap?" "School of America in Paris" he explains. "SOAP". Nice. My father sent me here to be cleansed.

She imagined loving him would feel like falling in love with darkness, frightening and consuming yet utterly beautiful when the stars came out.

Perfect is overrated. Perfect is boring." I smile. "You don't think I'm perfect?" "No. You're delightfully screwy, and I wouldn't have you any other way.

I said it would be better if we weren’t friends, not that I didn’t want to be.

So what do I wish for? Something I'm not sure I want? Someone I'm not sure I need? Or someone I know I can't have?

What is it?' Stephanie whispered. 'That, my dear Valkyrie, is what we call a monster.' She looked at Skulduggery. 'You don't know what it is, do you?' 'I told you what it is, it's a horrible monster. Now shut up before it comes over here and eats us.

Just because I'm not forever by your side doesn't mean that's not precisely where I want to be.

When it's right, it's simple.

Hope is a powerful thing. Some say it’s a different breed of magic altogether. Elusive, difficult to hold on to. But not much is needed.

What if I'm not a superhero. What if I'm the bad guy?

So do you believe in second chances?" I bite my lip. "Second, third, fourth. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. If the person is right," he adds. "If the person is... Lola?" This time, he holds my gaze. "Only if the other person is Cricket.

Seriously, I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent.

In the morning, you can forget it. You can go back to pretending you don't like me, and I can pretend that I don't care. But for tonight, let me pretend you're mine.

I don't want to feel this way around him. I want things to be normal. I want to be his friend, not another stupid girl holding out for something that will never happen.

And if I'm the stars, Cricket Bell is entire galaxies.

I like the way you've let your hair go curly," he finally said. "Suits your personality. Lots of energy, not much control, sexy as hell," Joe Morelli to Stephanie Plum

How many times can our emotions be tied to someone else's - be pulled and stretched and twisted - before they snap? Before they can never be mended again?

There are some people in life that you can't get over.

We both got our Point Zero wishes―each other. He said he wished for me every time.

Sometimes a mistake isn't a what. It's a who.

My professional aspirations were simple - I wanted to be an intergalactic princess.

A moment of reserve. "That was it? The whole story?" "Yes. God, you're right. That was pants." I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. "Pants?" "Rubbish. Crap. Shite." Pants. Oh heavens, that's cute.

Heroes don't get happy endings. They give them to other people.

I don't believe in fashion. I believe in costume. Life is too short to be same person every day.

I moan with pleasure. "Did you just have a foodgasm?" he asks, wiping ricotta from his lips. "Where have you been all my life?" I ask the beautiful panini.

This is home. The two of us.

Every story has four parts - the beginning, the middle, the almost ending, and the true ending.

Anna, Anna," Josh interrupts. "If I had a euro for every stupid thing I've done, I could buy the Mona Lisa. You'll be fine.

No one is truly honest,” Nigel answered. “Even if we don't lie to others, we often lie to ourselves. And the word good means different things to different people.

People should say what they mean and not make other people stumble around.

The only French word I know is oui, which means “yes,” and only recently did I learn it’s spelled o-​u-​i and not w-​e-​e.

Everyone makes mistakes. The important thing is to not make the same mistake twice.

Madame Guillotine gets mad at me. Not because I told them to shove it, but because I didn’t say it in French. What is wrong with this school?

It's easy to talk about things we hate, but sometimes it's hard to explain exactly why we like something.

Please. The boy gets a boner every time you walk into the room." My eyes pop back open. Does she mean that figuratively or has she actually seen something? No. Focus, Anna.

Why do I care so much about him, and why do I wish I didn't? How can one person make me so confused all of the time?

Har. Bloody. Har." He smiles. "Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent. What's next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?" Trousers. Honestly.

Because that’s the thing about depression. When I feel it deeply, I don’t want to let it go. It becomes a comfort. I want to cloak myself under its heavy weight and breathe it into my lungs. I want to nurture it, grow it, cultivate it. It’s mine. I want to check out with it, drift asleep wrapped in its arms and not wake up for a long, long time.

I make lots of mistakes. I try hard not to make the same mistake more than three or four times.

I believe there are far more possibilities than happily ever after or tragedy. Every story has the potential for infinite endings.

I am hard on myself. But isn’t it better to be honest about these things before someone else can use them against you? Before someone else can break your heart? Isn’t it better to break it yourself?

Occasionally, there are minutes that get extra seconds. Moments so precious the universe stretches to make additional room for them.

I automatically assume people won't like me, so I don't talk to them unless they approach me first. I can't become a part of a crowd because I can't get past that feeling that I don't belong.

Life isn’t about what you get, it’s about what you DO with what you get.

Books have been thought of as windows to another world of imagination

Phones are distracting. The internet is distracting.The way he looked at you? He wasn't distracted. He was consumed.

Where were you?” she asked. “I was killing innocent maidens and kicking puppies.” “Jacks, that’s not funny.

I don't understand why things always go from perfect to weird with us. It's like we're incapable of normal human interaction.

And I hold my head high toward my big entrance, hand in hand with the boy who gave me the moon and the stars.

A blank canvas...has unlimited possibilities.

It hurts, Jacks.” “I know, love. I’m going to take you somewhere safe.

I wish our story could have had another ending.

Hope is a difficult thing to kill, just a spark of it can start a fire.

Most of my life, I’ve romanticized death. I used to love the idea of something being so tremendous that it was worth dying for. But I was wrong. I think the most magnificent things are worth living for.

I hate mornings. They start so early.

I draw him closer by his tie and whisper into his ear, "Cricket Bell, I have been in love with you for my entire life.

What just happened?" "Your father invited the former love of your life in for pie." "Yeah, that's what I thought.

Dreams that come true can be beautiful, but they can also turn into nightmares when people won't wake up.

I had never given much thought to how I would die, but dying in the place of someone I love doesn't seem like such a bad way to go.

Whatever you've heard about Caraval, it doesn't compare to the reality. It's more than just a game or performance. It's the closest you'll ever find yourself magic in this world.

St. Clair clears his throat. 'My fiancée and I are headed out for a celebratory dessert. I'd ask you all to join us, but I don't want you there.

Sorry to be your second choice." "Don't be stupid. Third choice. Mum's asleep, remember?" He laughs again.

There's no story,' I say. 'I saw you one day, and I just knew.

Oof," he says. "Hey, there's a bed there." "Thanks for the warning." "No problem.

He held her with the type of intensity that only happens when a person wants something that isn't quite theirs.

She remembered thinking falling for him would be like falling in love with darkness, but now she imagined he was more like a starry night: the constellations were always there, constant, magnificent guides against the ever-present black.

So,’ she said cautiously, 'is all this your way of telling me you’re the villain?’ His chuckle was dark. 'I’m definitely not the hero.’ 'I already knew that,’ Tella said. 'It’s my story, so clearly I’m the hero.

Anna prods St. Clair's shoulder. "Come on. Weren't you gonna show me that thing?" "What thing?" She stares at him. He stares back. She cocks her head toward Cricket and me. "Ah, yes." St. Clair stands. "That thing." They rush out. The door shuts, and St. Clair shouts, "Lola, Cricket wants to show you his thing, too-oo!

Not everyone gets a true ending. There are two types of endings because most people give up at the part of the story where things are the worst, where the situation feels hopeless. But that’s when hope is needed most. only those who persevere can find their true ending.

I’m going to go back and stop your son from killing her.” The queen’s face fell. For a moment, she looked as old as the years she’d spent lying in a suspended state. “That is not a small mistake to fix. If you do this, Time will take something equally valuable from you.” The Fate gave the queen a look more vicious than any curse. “There is nothing of equal value to me.

Happy endings can be caught, but they are difficult to hold on to. They are dreams that want to escape the night. They are treasure with wings. They are wild, feral, reckless things that need to be constantly chased, or they will certainly run away.

There's something about blue eyes. The kind of blue that startles you every time they're lifted in your direction. The kind of blue that makes you ache for them to look at you again. Not the blue green or blue gray, the blue that's just blue. Cricket has those eyes.

Welcome, welcome to Caraval! The grandest show on land or by sea. Inside you’ll experience more wonders than most people see in a lifetime. You can sip magic from a cup and buy dreams in a bottle. But before you fully enter into our world, you must remember it’s all a game.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who talked to the moon. And she was mysterious and she was perfect, in that way that girls who talk to moons are. In the house next door, there lived a boy. And the boy watched the girl grow more and more perfect, more and more beautiful with each passing year. He watched her watch the moon. And he began to wonder if the moon would help him unravel the mystery of the beautiful girl. So the boy looked into the sky. But he couldn't concentrate on the moon. He was too distracted by the stars. And it didn't matter how many songs or poems had already been written about them, because whenever he thought about the girl, the stars shone brighter. As if she were the one keeping them illuminated. One day, the boy had to move away. He couldn't bring the girl with him, so he brought the stars. When he'd look out his window at night, he would start with one. One star. And the boy would make a wish on it, and the wish would be her name. At the sound of her name, a second star would appear. And then he'd wish her name again, and the stars would double into four. And four became eight, and eight became sixteen, and so on, in the greatest mathematical equation the universe had ever seen. And by the time an hour had passed, the sky would be filled with so many stars that it would wake the neighbors. People wondered who'd turned on the floodlights. The boy did. By thinking about the girl.

Most people in Atlanta don't have an accent. It's pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add jokingly. "Fo' shiz," he replies in his polite English accent. I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm laughing too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'. Shiz." He repeats it solemnly. Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that. It's too-" I gasp. "Much." "You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions." "My birthday is in February." Cough choke wheeze. "Please don't forget.

I'm sorry," he says. "What? Why?" "You're fixing everything I set down." He nods at my hands, which are readjusting the elephant. "It wasn't polite of me to come in and start touching your things." "Oh, it's okay," I say quickly, letting go of the figurine. "You can touch anything of mine you want." He freezes. A funny look runs across his face before I realize what I've said. I didn't mean it like that. Not that that would be so bad.

I trail my fingers across his cheek. He stays perfectly still for me. “Please stop apologizing, Étienne.” “Say my name again,” he whispers. I close my eyes and lean forward. “Étienne.” He takes my hands into his.Those perfect hands, that fit mine just so. “Anna?” Our foreheads touch. “Yes?” “Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.” And then we’re laughing. And then I’m in his arms, and we’re kissing, at first quickly—to make up for lost time—and then slowly, because we have all the time in the world. And his lips are soft and honey sweet, and the careful, passionate way he moves them against my own says that he savors the way I taste, too. And in between kisses, I tell him I love him. Again and again and again.