Stepheniemeyer Quotes

he'd been right all along.
He was more than just my friend. That's why it was so impossible to tell him goodbye – because I was in love with him. Too. I loved him, much more than I should, and yet, still nowhere near enough. I was in love with him, but it was not enough to change anything; it was only enough to hurt us both more. To hurt him worse than I ever had. I didn't care about more than that – than his pain. I more than deserved whatever pain this caused me. I hoped it was bad. I hoped I would really suffer. In this moment, it felt as though we were the same person. His pain had always been and would always be my pain – now his joy was my joy. I felt joy, too, and yet his happiness was somehow also pain. Almost tangible – it burned against my skin like acid, a slow torture.

Before you, my life was like a moonless night. Very dark, but there were stars – points of light and reason. And then you shot across my sky like a meteor. Suddenly everything was on fire; there was brilliancy, there was beauty. When you were gone, when the meteor had fallen over the horizon, everything went black. Nothing had changed, but my eyes were blinded by the light. I couldn't see the stars anymore. And there was no more reason for anything.

                            —Stephenie Meyer


     There really is something irresistible about a lost 

I thought about Juliet some more.
I wondered what she would have done if Romeo had left her, not because he was banished, but because he lost interest? What if Rosalind had given him the time of day, and he'd changed his mind? What if, instead of marrying Juliet, he'd just disappeared?
I thought I knew how Juliet would feel.
She wouldn't go back to her old life, not really. She wouldn't ever have moved on, I was sure of that. Even if she'd lived until she was old and gray, every time she closed her eyes, it would have been Romeo's face she saw behind her lids. She would have accepted that, eventually. I wondered if she would have married Paris in the end, just to please her parents, to keep the peace. No, probably not, I decided. But then, the story didn't say much about Paris. He was just a stick figure – a placeholder, a threat, a deadline to force her hand.
What if there were more to Paris?
What if Paris had been Juliet's friend? Her very best friend? What if he was the only one she could confide in about the whole devastating thing with Romeo? The one person who really understood her and made her feel halfway human again? What if he was patient and kind? What if he took care of her? What if Juliet knew she couldn't survive without him? What if he really loved her, and wanted her to be happy?
And... what if she loved Paris? Not like Romeo. Nothing like that, of course. But enough that she wanted him to be happy, too?

love didn't work that way, I decided. once you cared about a person it was impossible to be logical about them anymore.


  One thing I truly knew – knew it in the pit of my stomach, in the center of my bones, knew it from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, knew it deep in my empty chest – was how love gave someone the power to break you. I'd been broken beyond repair.

How could I explain so that he would understand? I was an empty shell. Like a vacant house – condemned – for months I'd been utterly uninhabitable. Now I was a little improved. The front room was in better repair. But that was all – just the one small piece. He deserved better than that – better than a one-room, falling down fixer-upper. No amount of investment on his part could put me back in working order.

                            —Stephenie Meyer


It will be as if I'd never existed, he'd promised me. I felt the smooth wooden floor beneath my knees, and then the palms of my hands, and then it was pressed against the skin of my cheek. I hoped that I was fainting, but, to my disappointment, I didn't lose consciousness. The waves of pain that had only lapped at me before now reared high up and washed over my head, pulling me under.
I did not resurface.

  Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.

At a conference, Stephenie Meyer said, "The God of Writing sent me to Earth to teach people how to write." When J.K. Rowling heard, she looked at the ground, puzzled, then said, "I didn't send anyone."
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