Summer Days and Summer Nights: Twelve Love Stories

Some of us wear our hearts. Some of us carry them.

Some people might leave you,' he said, for once ignoring a joke in favor of something real. 'But it doesn't mean you're worth leaving. It doesn't mean that at all.

You can spend your life waiting and watching for perfect moments, but sometimes you have to make one happen.

The person she liked best didn't like her enough to want more of her, and she didn't want to pretend that wasn't awful.

Probably falling in love is always a little like that: You discover that one other person who understands what no one else seems to, which is that the world is broken and can never, ever be fixed. You can stop pretending, at least for a little while. You can both admit it, if only to each other.

What is life, it comes to me, without the occasional risk of pizza?

Love can be so sttange and sad. It can be hard to understand why we run toward certain people and away from others at different times in our lives. Why we search so hard for that thing we are looking for, and the run so fast when we find it. Sick Pleasure - Francesca Lia Block

You can carry alt these memories around. They'll last longer than your grief, I promise, and someday you'll be able to think of them and feel like I'm right there with you again.

But you know how there's a certain kind of person - and it's different for everyone - but suddenly when you see them your eye just snags on them, you get caught and you can't look away, and you're ten times more awake than you were a moment ago, and it's like you're a harp string and somebody just plucked you?

Art is, above all things, both vulnerable and brave.

But the thing about scars is that, as much as they knot you up, they can make you stronger, too. Collect enough scars and you get a whole extra layer of skin, for free.

As much as people want to look on the bright side, skip straight to the future when everything will be okay, the truth is that there is this time, where you sometimes have trouble breathing, and you feel powerless. Like you’re screaming and no one hears you, and the myth of the happy future is nothing you can count on, and the only word that makes sense is escape.

He was a mystery that—for reasons I didn’t quite understand—I felt desperate to solve.

―Yeah, but what about the ritual of getting your ticket and your snacks, finding the perfect seat, ―I countered.― All those strangers watching the movie with you, they change how you see it, you know? You should hear their gasps and laughter and sniffling. It’s a communal experience. You can’t get that on your laptop or phone. That sharing, it’s the foundation of storytelling. It reminds us that we’re… ―What? ―Human. Humans who need other humans

Some people might leave you [...] but it doesn't mean you're worth leaving

Love can be so strange and sad. It can be hard to understand why we run toward certain people and away from others at different times in our lives. Why we search so hard for that thing we are looking for, and then run so fast when we find it.

Because if we are all fools, then perhaps there is some wisdom in falling in love.

My hair doesn’t take well to instruction.

Eli’s long fingers cupped her face, traced the nape of her neck, kept her still, as if he needed to give her every bit of his attention, as if he could learn her like a language, plot her like a course. Eli kissed Gracie like she was a song and he was determined to hear every note.

She could smell the storm on him, like the lightning had followed him home, like he was made of the same dense rain clouds.

She pulled the pot of apple balm from her pocket. [...] Eli snatched it from her palm and hurled it into the darkness, into the lake. 'Hey!' Gracie protested. 'Why would you do that?' He took a deep breath. His shoulders lifted, fell. 'Because I've spent nine months thinking of apples.' "Heard, Scales, Tongue, Tail" by Leigh Bardugo

Perfect moments, what did they even mean? They were blind luck, that was all. Coincidences. Statistical anomalies. I did some Googling and it turned out somebody had actually bothered to do the math on this, a real actual Cambridge University mathematician named John Littlewood (1885-1977; thank you, Wikipedia). He proposed that if you define a miracle as something with a probability of one in a million, and if you’re paying close attention to the world around you eight hours a day, every day, and little things happen around you at a rate of one per second, then you’d observe about thirty thousand things every day, which means about a million things a month. So, on average, you should witness one miracle every month (or every thirty-three-and-one-third days, if we’re being strictly accurate). It’s called Littlewood’s law. So, there you have it, a miracle a month. They’re not even that special.

I was more comfortable just watching antics like these, turning them into a myth in my mind, a legend. I watched life so that I could find the story inside it – it helped me make sense of things. But sometimes I got tired of my own brain, perpetually unsettled as it was

I thought about what time is, how we're broken every second, we're losing moments all the time, leaking them away like a stuffed animal losing its stuffing, until one day they're gone an we lose everything. Forever. And then, at the same time, we're gaining seconds, moment after moment. Every one is a gift, until at the end of our lives we're sitting on a rich hoard of moments. Rich beyond imaging. Time was both those things at once.

Dear reader, if you have ever had to tromp around on a hot golf course for hours, lugging someone else's ungainly golf bag filled with long metal objects, then you too would most likely prefer lying in the shade, half-listening to rich boys complain, instead.

The person she liked best didn’t like her enough to want more of her, and she didn’t want to pretend that wasn’t awful.

Most of the time I was so close to falling into the darkest, emptiest placeinside me that I tried to feel nothing at all. So the only difference between this and some kind of flat, medicated state was that I knew I could still go there if I needed to, even if I wouldn’t. And that place, I had told myself, was where the real me was. Where the art was, too. But maybe—maybe it wasn’t where it was. I was so convinced that changing my brain would take away my art, but maybe it would give me new art. Maybe without the monster in my mind, I could actually do more, not less. It was probably equally likely. But I believed more in my possible doom than in my possible healing. —It’s okay to want to feel better. —He touched my hand.

I get it' Dani said, suprising me. 'When you watch one of these old movies in a place like this, you're connected to everybody else who's ever watched it. You can practically feel them around you.'" Libba Bray

…I think maybe saying goodbye isn’t all bad. Maybe it means I’m making room for someone new.

Love. It’s such a bullshit word