Cruel Illusions

Lots of people ask questions they already know the answer to. It's much easier than asking something you don't know and having to guess if you'll like the answer or not

Being immortal doesn't let you grow. All it does it let you lose pieces of yourself.

There are small and easy ways to break a child. I know most of them–making promises you never keep; saying everything will be fine when it never is; giving a Popsicle to one kid and not the other; saying you love them and then pinching their arm hard enough to bruise; never bothering to look at them at all; kissing their forehead at night and telling them you’ll never leave and then dying.

Sometimes I wish I could post a flyer and have a kind stranger show up at my door and give me back everything i’ve ever lost. But most lost things never come back.

I'm sitting on the beach with a family. I'm sitting on the beach with people that seem to want me to be part of their family. They want me enough to train me to fight for it. This is what I really want—not killing vampires. I thought I Had to do that to find peace, but it didn't give me any. This, sitting here with people who always have each other's back no matter what, that's what I really want.

I don’t want to heal.” He nods. “Some wounds take time.

The hope on his face feels like a different kind of wound. I don't know if I can trust him, but I do know he won't hurt me. And I'm starting to think he might kill for me. That's scarier.

The world still needs a little bit of wonder, I think. I’d like to give it that.

That’s what i need to hear. We’ll be fine. Eventually. Eventually is what matters.

Being immortal doesn’t let you grow. All it does is let you lose pieces of yourself.

There’s been something between us for a long time, but it felt too raw, like it was built on both our wounds. Yet maybe having the same wounds makes it possible to heal together, I thought I wanted easy. Healing is hard.

Fairy tales weren’t made for me. But I can handle real and messy, and I want this.

Book, like any good illusion, pull you in, and for a moment there is only Gatsby, Daisy, Tom and Nick, and you, and sometimes, if the writer’s a master, you’re not even there anymore–you’ve disappeared and pieces of you take root in each character.

This magic is almost too good. It makes me want, and that’s never wise. Better to leave now before I make it worse.

Are you okay?" An impossible question. I don't know how anyone ever answers it. Isn't everyone always okay and not okay at the same time? Okay in the sense that they're breathing, making it through another day. And not okay in any number of major or insignificant ways. It's not a yes-or-no question. Either answer makes you a liar.