The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #1)

by Patrick Rothfuss

So I made my good-byes and watched her enter the side door of the Oaken Oar. I took a deep breath and could hardly keep from laughing or dancing about. I was so full of her, the smell of the wind through her hair, the sound of her voice, the way the moonlight cast shadows across her face. Then, slowly, my feet settled to the ground. Before I had taken six steps I sagged like a sail when the wind fades. As I walked back through the town, past sleeping houses and dark inns, my mood swung from elation to doubt in the space of three brief breaths. I had ruined everything. All the things I had said, things that seemed so clever at the time, were in fact the worst things a fool could say. Even now she was inside, breathing a sigh of relief to finally be rid of me. But she had smiled. Had laughed. She hadn’t remembered our first meeting on the road from Tarbean. I couldn’t have made that much of an impression on her. Steal me, she had said. I should have been bolder and kissed her at the end. I should have been more cautious. I had talked too much. I had said too little.