Book Lovers

Fame comes with money,” I point out. “Money’s helpful.”

“Fame also comes with people telling you whatever they think you want to hear.”

Birth is a kind of death

It’s one thing to accept that the person I love most is fundamentally unknowable to me; it’s another to accept that she doesn’t quite see me either.

I’m used to rats—most run away at the sight of a person, and the rest basically just hold out tiny hats to beg for bits of pizza.

She wonders whether what comes next could ever live up to the expectations.

She doesn’t know. You never can.

She turns the page
anyway.

For anyone who wants it all,” she begins, “may you find something that is more than enough.”

“I know,” he says. “I can read you like a book.”

You let me love you as much as I know I can, for as long as I know I can, and you have it fucking all.

“That’s a face.”

“I’ve always had one, Stephens,” he says. “Fairly disappointing you just noticed.”

“You’re in books. Of course you don’t have a life. None of us do. There’s always something too good to read.”