Sarah Dessen (born June 6, 1970) is an American writer who lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
If you could just be nice, then you wouldn't have to worry about arguments at all. but being nice wasn't as easy as it seemed, especially when the rest of the world could be so mean.
That was the thing. You never got used to it, the idea of someone being gone. Just when you think it's reconciled, accepted, someone points it out to you, and it just hits you all over again, that shocking.
If this was my forever, I wouldn't want to spend it here.
If someone is really close with you, your getting upset or them getting upset is okay, and they don't change because of it. It's just part of the relationship. It happens. You deal with it.
It was amazing how you could get so far from where you'd planned, and yet find it was exactly were you needed to be.
I took in a breath. "What's the one thing you'd do," I asked. "if you could do anything?" Pass," he said. For a second I was sure I'd heard wrong. "What?" He cleared his throat. "I said, I pass. " Why?" He turned his head and looked at me. "Because. " Because why?" Because I just do.
After everything that happened, how could I miss him? But I did, I did.
Sometimes. It was a good escape. Until, you know, it wasn‟t.
I was worn out, broken: He had taken almost everything. But he'd been all I'd had, all this time. And when the police led him away, I pulled out of the hands of all these loved one, sobbing, screaming, everything hurting, to try and make him stay.
I wasn't very happy in high school: it was a confusing and sort of sad time for me.
It was great. Freedom even the imagined kind always is.
Wake up, Caitlin, Mr. Lensing had said. But what he didn't understand was that this dreamland was preferable, walking through this life half-sleeping, everything at arm's length or farther away.
I have to admit, an unrequited love is so much better than a real one. I mean, it's perfect. . . As long as something is never even started, you never have to worry about it ending. It has endless potential.
Sometimes it seems safer to hold it all in, where the only person who can judge is yourself.
Was it really this easy, once you escaped, to just not care?
I am never happy when I finish a book. I always start feeling good, and then I get to about Page 75 and start losing momentum - and I kind of pull it together at the end, but by then I think it's just all over. It's become almost a running joke among my agent and my editor - I always say that, so they don't take me seriously anymore.
Sometimes love can be an ugly thing.
How do you even begin to return to someone, much less convince them to do the same for you? I had no idea. More than ever, though, right then I had to believe the answer would just come to me.
So maybe it wasn't the fairy tale. But those stories weren't real anyway. Mine were.
I hoped this was true. Even if it wasn‟t, all I could do was hand over what I could, with the hope of something in return. But of course, this was easier said than done.