The Story of the Lost Child (The Neapolitan Novels, #4)

by Elena Ferrante

What a waste it would be, I said to myself, to ruin our story by leaving too much space for ill feelings: ill feelings are inevitable, but the essential thing is to keep them in check.

We talked about everything, but not the way we had as adolescents: those times would never return.

☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

The world has changed tremendously and belongs more and more to them, less and less to me.

of aging

But I wanted it to be I who made her last. I thought it was my task. I was convinced that she herself, as a girl, had assigned it to me.

of friendship ☹️

Unlike stories, real life, when it has passed, inclines toward obscurity, not clarity.

true 😔🤞🏽