This Time It's Real

by Ann Liang

Words just move me. A beautiful sentence will sneak under my skin and crack me open the way a phrase of music might, or a climactic scene from a movie. A well-crafted story can make me laugh and gasp for breath and weep.

The only thing worse than awkward silence is the kind of meaningless chatter designed solely to fill said silence.

For one dumb moment, I can’t help but think, No wonder why he’s so vain. If I were that beautiful, I would be vain too.

Writing is simply a form of lying; I’ve always known this to be true. But to tell a good lie, a convincing lie, one that is both logically constructed and consistent and emotionally resonant—that takes time and effort. Attention to detail.

When you care about someone, you want to be inconvenienced—you wouldn’t mind being inconvenienced by them every day for the rest of your life. That’s what love is. That’s all love really is.”

If this goes on, I might just die of guilt. But if this ends, I already have too much to grieve. Somehow, despite all my rules and reservations, I’m already in too deep, so far lost in the waves that sinking feels easier than swimming.

The one time I decide to engage in voluntary physical activity and my body gives up on me.

“Most sincere things feel at least a little embarrassing. It’s part of our defense mechanisms. Our heart’s way of protecting us from potential hurt.”

“Whether they’re real or not—all your words have consequences. You can’t just take them back.”