I'll Follow You

by Charlene Wang

Promises, after all, are just stories—stories of how we see ourselves, stories of how we think the future should unfold.

I've never thought about it like this, but this is actually quite accurate

Kayla was the architect of our futures, the getaway driver. I just pumped the gas and filled the tires.

We are seeing early on some insight into their dynamics

Hope was like that for people like us: addictive, potent, so precious it was worth dying for.

Sometimes in friendships, there is nothing kinder than silence.

Kayla’s supreme ability to coax anyone into doing anything just by presenting a set of circumstances in a certain 16light.

Seems like Kayla possesses the dominance in this friendship

The losses that sting the most, I’ve come to realize, are always the ones that are the most difficult to claim.

There must be a German or Japanese word for this feeling, I thought. The loneliness of standing in the middle of a crowd.

There’s a voice that grows inside every relationship, almost like a beat, a pulse. How important can you possibly be to him, it hissed, if he won’t tell you anything about himself?

but back then I treated friendship like leveling up in a video game. If it was too easy, I lost interest.

This definitely ties to the rollercoaster dynamics between her and Kayla...thinking friendship is supposed to be that way

That’s the problem with youth: You’re so busy thinking your secrets will undo you, you can’t see that everybody’s got them.

So very true

Beauty has a way of evoking effortlessness—and erasing everything else.

Our friendship can take a different shape. Our fates were no longer entwined. Just like that, the composition could change.

Friendships can change and evolve and truth be told, some may be only meant for seasons of our life

And it was hardest to believe that I could be loved. Loved not in the way Kayla loved me, entwined in a sinewy dark knot. But love as a choice. As more than a means to survive.

With sickening clarity, the past few weeks took on a different shape. The mark wasn’t Henry anymore, or even Wyman—the mark was me.

Oh shit, she set her up...WTH?!

It’s always the small things that unravel you.

Stories, all stories, are cursed in this way: Once we tell a story, we find ourselves telling it for the rest of our lives.

Then there are the other stories. The stories that follow you around, skittering at the edges, ready to pounce. Stories you’re condemned to tell, for the rest of your life, even when you don’t want to.

This danger of telling lies which then turn into stories...you have to keep up the lie

Lies, repeated so many times, start to resemble truth. It’s the truth that’s fragile, that starts falling apart at the seams when asked to assert itself, over and over. Lies have stretch, more room to give. Like kneading straggly bits of dough into a smooth, shiny ball.

The description of lies here is so riveting...love the descriptive writing

So Wyman didn’t know just how chilling his words were: “Darling, you should know this about me by now.” He smirked. “When I love something, I can’t get enough.”

He's been involved with Avery too...does she know about him and Faith?!