The Last Thing He Told Me (Hannah Hall, #1)

by Laura Dave

Maybe we are all fools, one way or another, when it comes to seeing the totality of the people who love us—the people we try to love.

He never understood that I wasn’t scared of someone leaving me. I was scared that the wrong person would stay.

This is the terrible thing about a tragedy. It isn’t with you every minute. You forget it, and then you remember it again. And you see it with a stark quality: This is what is required of you now, just to get along.

How do you explain it when you find in someone what you’ve been waiting for your whole life? Do you call it fate? It feels lazy to call it fate. It’s more like finding your way home—where home is a place you secretly hoped for, a place you imagined, but where you’d never before been.

This is the thing about good and evil. They aren’t so far apart—and they often start from the same valiant place of wanting something to be different.

It’s never about someone else the moment you realize it is up to you to get yourself to a better place. It’s only about figuring out how to get there.