Taylor Jenkins Reid

I had absolutely no interest in being somebody else’s muse.
I am not a muse.
I am the somebody.

“You and I aren’t going to spend our lives together,” Jesse says. “But I finally understand that that doesn’t take away any of the beauty of the fact that we were right for each other once.”

“True love doesn’t always last,” I say. “It doesn’t always have to be for a lifetime.”

“Right. And that doesn’t mean it’s not true love,” Jesse says.

It was real.

And now it’s over.

And that’s OK.

“I am who I am because I loved you once,” he says.

“I am who I am because I loved you once, too,” I say.

And then we say good-bye.

You don’t tie yourself to something unless you’re scared you might float away.

“What are you getting at?”

But I wanted to push the envelope.

And the devastating luxury of panic overtook me again

Daisy would often ask to get her hair cut just because she loved her hairdresser, she would ask neighbors if she could walk their dogs, there was even a family joke about the time Daisy tried to bake a birthday cake for the mailman

We love broken, beautiful people. And it doesn’t get much more obviously broken and more classically beautiful than Daisy Jones.

There’s this peace that comes with knowing you have a person in the world who would do anything for you, that you would do anything for. She was the first time I ever had that.

I had felt too much vulnerability too young. I didn’t want to do it anymore