Happy Place

No," he says quietly. "In every universe, it's you for me. Even if it's not me for you.

My best friends taught me a new kind of quiet, the peaceful stillness of knowing one another so well you don’t need to fill the space. And a new kind of loud: noise as a celebration, as the overflow of joy at being alive, here, now.

You are in all of my happiest places.

Love means constantly saying you're sorry, and then doing better.

Like even when something beautiful breaks, the making of it still matters.

Things change, but we stretch and grow and make room for one another. Our love is a place we can always come back to, and it will be waiting, the same as it ever was. You belong here.

I want my life to be like-like making pottery. I want to enjoy it while it's happening, not just for where it might get me eventually.

I understood then, the immense honor it is to hurt like she does. To have loved someone so much that the taste of maple syrup can make you cry and laugh at the same time.

You're like gravity. Everything keeps spinning, but my mind's always got one hand on you.

He's become my best friend the way the others did. Bit by bit, sand passing through an hour glass so slowly, it's impossible to pin down the moment it happens. When suddenly, more of my heart belongs to him than doesn't, and I know I'll never get a single grain back.

I imagined them all thinking it was worth it. Telling me how much they loved me. All my life, when I thought of my future, that was what I pictured. Not a career. The things I thought would come with it. Happiness, love, safety. And that dream had been enough for a long time. What was school if not a chance to earn your worth? To prove, again and again, that you were measurably good. One more deal I struck with a disinterested universe: If I'm good enough, I'll be happy. I'll be loved. I'll be safe.

He’s a golden boy. I’m a girl whose life has been drawn in shades of gray.

They all do, I think. You are in all of my happiest places. You are where my mind goes when it needs to be soothed.

Want is a kind of thief. It’s a door in your heart, and once you know it’s there, you’ll spend your life longing for whatever’s behind it.

How many universes do you think we’re together in?” “Higher than either of us can count.

There doesn’t need to be a winner and a loser. You just have to care how the other person feels. You have to care more about them than you do about being right.

Are you saying I can come home?” “I’m saying,” he murmurs softly, “it’s not home unless you’re there.

I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the loneliness swell, not knowing whether it's pressing against me from the outside or growing from within. either way, it's inescapable, my oldest companion.

It doesn't matter how busy life's been, how long the five of us have gone without seeing one another: meeting at the cottage is like pulling on a favourite sweatshirt, worn to perfection. Time doesn't move the same way when we're there. Things change, but we stretch and grow and make room for one another. Our love is a place we can always come back to, and it will be waiting, the same as it ever was. You belong here.

And not knowing something doesn’t make a person stupid, Wyn.” “Oh,” he says, amused. “Then what does?” After a moment’s thought, I say, “An unwillingness to learn.

Your job doesn’t have to be your identity. It can just be a place you go, that doesn’t define you or make you miserable. You deserve to be happy, Harriet.” He brushes a strand of hair away from the curve of my jaw. “Everything’s better when you’re happy.

I love you", I tell him. "In every universe.

What can you feel? Sunlight, everywhere. Not just on my bare shoulders or the crown of my head but inside me too, the irresistible warmth that comes only from being in the exact right place with the exact right people.

it's not selfish to want to be happy

Because there's nowhere I wouldn't go for you

Everything’s different and nothing’s changed, Harriet,” he says. “I tried so fucking hard to let you go, to let you be happy, and when I see you, I still feel like—like you’re mine. Like I’m yours. I got rid of every single piece of you, like that would make a difference, like I could cut you out of me, and instead, I just see everywhere you’re supposed to be.

What if she wants to be alone?” She has a point. It’s possible. But people don’t run or hide only when they want to be alone. “What if,” I say, “she needs to know she isn’t?

The most important friendships in my life all came down to a decision made by strangers, chance.

Everything is changing. It has to. You can’t stop time. All you can do is point yourself in a direction and hope the wind will let you get there. Another maritime metaphor. I am truly a local’s worst nightmare. But the point stands: change happens.

He laughs against my cheek. I wish I could swallow the sound, that it would put down roots in my stomach and grow through me like a seed.