Casey McQuiston

I can love you and want you and still not want that life. I’m allowed

You can try, she guesses. You can tear yourself apart and rebuild from scratch, bring yourself to every corner of the map, sew a new self from the scraps of a thousand other people and places. You can try to expand to fill a different shape. But at the end of the day, there’s a place at the foot of the bed where your shoes hit the floor, and it’s the same.

It’s always the same.

He has the personality of a cabbage.”

Khakis are for white people.”

“You’re thirty-nine.”

“My liver is ninety-three.”

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he says finally.

He leaves Alex standing there alone in the kitchen, the box of Cornettos sweating on the counter.

Whatever, fine. Henry is annoyingly attractive. That’s always been a thing, objectively. It’s fine.

don’t know WHO you think you’re kidding, you hufflepuff-ass bitch, Alex texts back, before Henry clarifies his dog, not him, is a Slytherin.

“You keep doing that stupid smile every time you look at your phone. Who are you texting?”

mean, your dog is named David, which is pretty boring.”

“After Bowie.”

“I—” Alex’s head spins, recalibrating. “Are you serious? What the hell? Why not call him Bowie, then?”