Trio Friendship Quotes

Jessica, Willow, and Abby burst through the door in a loud explosion of giggles and then stop at the counter to get their Diet Cokes before heading to the back to join us. I don’t really like these girls—I have never liked these girls—and yet somehow they are on the periphery of our friend group. Okay, fine, we are actually on the periphery of their friend group, since as a trio, Jessica, Willow, and Abby are by far the most popular girls in the junior class. I have no idea how they’ve managed to swing it—popularity is an undefinable thing at Mapleview, which as best I can tell involves a whole lot of unearned, effortless confidence and the ability to get other people to look at you for no reason at all. Jessica is a blonde, Willow is a brunette, and Abby is a redhead, just like every teen friend group on television (except, in this case, sans a sassy black sidekick). Boom! Best friends for life. I assume there’s more to their friendship than hair-color optics and an affinity for thong underwear. That taken individually there is the distant possibility they might actually be interesting people. I doubt I will ever know, though, since they travel as a pack

We are this close-knit group, navigating the crowded hallways as if we are one person. Teen-Jism-Ek-Jaan types. Trios always work, right?

...but they were ready to follow him anywhere.

I'd told you I'd follow you anywhere.

We were just putting words to our thoughts to see if they had wings.

It feels like I have to enact violence upon myself to love him in a way he's comfortable with. And I can't. I care too much about myself to do that.

It was a beautiful day. Children played in the park. Cars and buses drove down the road and people were wearing sunglasses and light jackets and drinking coffee outside the cafes. It seemed to me that everything should have stopped, that some of what was happening inside me should have an effect on my surroundings - even just a cold breeze, or a dark cloud passing across the sun. But the world would not be moved.

I found it increasingly difficult to shake the suspicion that work was all about pretending to care about pointless stuff, and that success hinged on your ability to trick even yourself.

It feels like I have to enact violence upon myself to love him in a way he's comfortable with. And I can't I care too much about myself to do that.

The table between them is the size of an ocean. She smiles an impersonal smile and Hugo smiles back, just as impersonally. It stings. She thinks of the person she was when he knew her, when she, Hugo and August were a trio. She conjures an image of the three of them in winter jackets, boots, scarves and hats, with library books in tote bags and laptops weighing down messenger bags and backpacks, and she can picture their silhouettes so clearly it's as if they're shuffling past outside the window, somewhere in between the fluttering lights. Then they disappear, engulfed by the lights, the people they once were, dissolved.

Handing August one of the cups, she decides that nothing bad can happen to him. This resolution feels like grabbing hold of a shaking object in order to make it stop. She can feel it resisting between her palms, feel the reverberations, but she doesn't loosen her hold. Finally it quivers, almost as if despondent, and when it stops it goes cold too, like she's strangled it.

She can feel the sun pressing on her face. August takes her hand in his, pressing it, and she smiles and presses back without opening her eyes. Everything is beautiful for a short moment. When she lets go she can still feel the warmth of his hand.