Bookish and the Beast

But there is so much more in those words than just loving books. I love the smell of them. I love the way their bindings look pressed together on a shelf. I love the feel of pages buzzing through my fingers. I love big books and small books. I love words and how they're strung together, and most of all, I love the stories. I love how books are not really just books at all, but doorways.

Books are not really just books at all, but doorways. They are portals into places I've never been and people I'll never be.

If this is where this chapter ends, I wouldn’t really mind, because now I know I have plenty more chapters to write. I thought my story ended when my mom died—because I didn’t think there was a book without her. Because I know it was just the ending of a chapter. It was the close of part one. Even though Mom is gone, she’s still in every word of my story, because hers lives on in me. It lives on in the books that she read, and the ones she shared, and the people she met. Like mine will. There is a whole universe out there waiting to tell our stories. And for the first time since she left, life doesn’t feel like the end of a sentence. It feels like a prologue, and I have my two best friends beside me to follow wherever that adventure takes me. And that, I decide, is what my

Sometimes the universe deals us fates that make us happy, but sometimes it simply deals us fates that make us.

What's home for you?" he asked. .. "A small town and a quiet library, where the sunlight slants through the window just right, making everything golden and soft and...

On the balcony, she had laughed and said she didn't mind being short. "Besides, it makes reaching upper cabinets a game of parkour." "I'd reach them for you, if you'd ask." "Would I have to ask?" "No.

Even though Mom is gone, she’s still in every word of my story, because hers lives on in me.

We all occupy space for such a short period of time, even though sometimes it feels like eternity. We’re here, and then gone, and our stuff stays behind. The things that we used, the things that we loved, the things that we treasured, and adored, and despised. Those trinkets exist far longer than we do, and I’ve always imagined them as that—just things. To be bought, sold, gathered.

This is only the beginning of your story, not the end.

Love isn’t like the grand romantic gestures you see in the movie. It isn’t a kiss and happily ever after, no matter how much I’d like it to be. It’s late night texts and tired calls after a long day on location, and heated arguments that end in 3 a.m. Facetimes apologizing to each other. It involves a lot of missing what other couples have-normalcy.

Whats home to you?" "Home to me? Home is a small town and a quiet library where the sunlight slants through the window just right, making everything golden and soft.

I’m terrible at cooking.” “And that is why we practice and say to the god of burnt food—not today.

Most of the time, I try not to think about it, but sometimes grief comes in waves. It laps against the sandy beach of your soul, again and again, soft and rushing and impossible to escape.

I wrote this book for me. So, if you didn’t really enjoy this book, that’s okay! You’ll find one that you love.

What's the point if I can't be beautiful?" I squint at him. "Are you quoting Howl's Moving Castle?" In reply, he gives another anguished wail and flops half of himself over the side of the armrest. The towel is doing a very terrible job of covering anything up, and I gently pull it over his nether region so he won't have to disgrace himself.

I've already read about romance. About what it feels like to fall in love. I had always thought I would linger on his eyelashes or his soft cornflower eyes or his smooth pale skin, his halo of golden hair, but-- All of the books are wrong. It misses the space between. The strange, thick air that fills with electricity as Vance leans closer. My skin tingles as he swipes a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingertips brushing against my cheek, and my breath catches in my throat. In all the books I've read, the author always described the physicality--the heat of their skin and the freckle on the left side of their lip and the way their eyebrows bunch together as they lean in, slowly, questioningly--but never the soft feeling of...just *being*. Where I feel safe.

I pull myself up to my full height, which is a good head taller than she is, but she has her hands on her hips as if I'm the short one. Which is not endearing. Not at all. And no, I'm not afraid of her. Not even a little...Perhaps a little.

They're trying to kick and punch each other but they don't want to get hit so they're definitely not landing any blows and it just looks very anticlimactic. And kind of pathetic. Two guys are fighting over me, and I'm not even impressed.

Sansa, my German shepherd, is stretched out on the other side of him. She barks at something only she can hear. "Shh, Sansa, we're watching an idiot in his natural habitat," I tell her.

Your spoiled is showing,

The ER was crawling with snot-year-olds last night.

I love hoe books are not really just books at all, but doorways

I don’t talk about my mom often. Whenever I do, my heart hurts in a way that nothing can really help. Like there’s this hole drilled into the center of my soul, an unending pit that keeps going and going, tempting me to fall in and get lost in the echo of who she was. Because she’s gone now.

My hair is orange." He throws his hands into the air. "And mine's beginning to fall out! We all have our problems, mijo.

The library was beautiful." I whisper. Annie tsks playfully. "Don't go falling in love with a library, now. Especially one you can't own." "Can't I fall in love just a little? At least books won't break my heart." "Then clearly you haven't read the books I have, " Quinn mutters,

I fumble, beginning to pull away, but his fingers snag into my jeans pocket to stop me. My stomach flips. I don't know if it's from butterflies, or if I'm about to be sick. "I-"I've never kissed anyone before. It was bad wasn't it? It was so bad, and you've kissed so many people, and God I am so mortified and - " "Gentler, Thorne" he says tenderly, a smile tugging at the edge of hos lips, and he presses his soft mouth against mine.