8 Quotes by Maggie Harcourt

If we were in his book, our hands would leave trails of light like sparklers through the sky, glowing against the night; they would crackle and fizz with magic. But we aren't, so they're just mildly clammy and soundtracked by someone throwing up against a lamp post on the promenade (loudly).

Go..." Dad says wearily. He knows that if I don't get out, she's going to get in. Or try to, anyway.

I am veritably breathless with anticipation

Perhaps I’m not made of glass after all. Perhaps I’m made of something stronger.

Sometimes, the things that are worth fighting for, the things that matter, are the things that could hurt us the most. But they hurt because they make us FEEL.

He smells of beginnings. Beginnings set in motion a long time ago and overlooked. Beginnings which no number of endings could bury.

Funny things, words. Big words, small words; words that are bigger on the inside and packed tight with feeling. They can make us fall in love, and they can break our hearts and we’re powerless against them.

We started with a funeral. It ends with a wake. Our wake: Steffan, Jared and Limpet’s. The paradox that somehow worked. This is how we bow out. This is where we end. When we look back– and we will– this will be the moment we see. This is the ending and the beginning. This is all of it. All the mess and all the masks forgotten. All our scars charted and mapped. This is what it always was, what it was always going to be.