Before (After, #5)

by Anna Todd

The only thing he liked to do was read page after page of his books.

The meaner a girl is to you, the farther she runs from you, the more she likes you. You should pursue her, young boys are taught. What those pushy boys grow up to find is that most of the time, when a girl doesn’t like you, she simply just doesn’t like you.

If these are the best years of my life, I don’t see much point in living any longer than this.

“I have a friend with some clout out west in Washington.”

This gave me the ick

People always talk that bullshit about the youngest being the baby of the family. It sounds nice, but I grew up with nothing but hand-me-downs and last-minute birthday parties where no one showed up except my immediate family.

I’m so tired of being compared to my sister—she was the golden child, and there’s nothing I can do to even win silver, it feels like. I can’t wait to leave for college.

His love for her burned brighter than any star, and he would highlight passages from ten thousand of her favorite novels to show her that.

I don’t know what it is about this novel that brings me to read and reread it so many damn times, but I always find myself skimming the pages of the dark tale. It’s fucked up, really—two people coming together, then falling part. Destroying themselves and everyone around them because they were too selfish and stubborn to get their shit together. But to me that’s the best type of fucking story.

I bet she shops at fucking Target; she seems like the type.

Sometimes I just want to drown out the world around me, and music and reading are the only things that do that for me.

Drunk girls are there, crying and being “best friends” with everyone…

every lie made in the dark becomes an evil truth in the light.

She’s used to getting attention from the opposite sex; it’s how she feels needed. I understand that more than anyone.

I want to be lost in the world of a novel where the characters have much worse problems than me and make me feel slightly more normal than I am.

whining to myself like a little child throwing a fit over his favorite toy breaking. Only Tessa isn’t my favorite toy; she’s too shiny, too new for my dirty hands to play with.

my boy only breaks his favorite toys??? 🤨🤨

he knows on some subconscious level that only plants can stand to be around him.

I think about this book I read where the women in the town vow to stop saying sorry in their everyday lives. It was quite interesting the way they realized 90 percent of the sorrys they were giving were for things they weren’t responsible for.

She’s so open and fragile, yet guarded and sharp like glass.

“Are you OCD or something?” I ask her, kind of amazed. “No, not everyone’s crazy because they just like things a certain way. There’s nothing wrong with being organized.”

Tell this to my therapist

I’ve gotten used to her sassy mouth and the way her eyes give away how angry she gets with me. Her fire is contagious. It’s becoming an addiction for me, as if I need another high calling my name.

Sometimes I can read her like a book, and other times the book is shut.

“Sometimes people can be family without sharing parents.”

I lived in darkness for so long; I want to help bring light to others.

She’s been my calm, my fire, my breath, my pain, and no matter what we’ve gone through, every second was worth getting to the life we have now. I dragged Tess and myself through hell and back, but here we are—After everything, we made it to our own version of heaven.