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Peter puts his hand on the glass of the frame. Kira never stopped making his pulse throb in his throat; he still loves her the way you do when you’re a teenager, when your heart swells in your chest and makes you feel like you can’t breathe.
It wasn’t a love that developed gradually, it hit her like an affliction.
“Quick as a wolverine with mustard up its ass! They won’t catch him!”
she turns and walks home on her own with a smile in her chest.
we always remember, more sharply than anything else, the last happy moment before everything fell apart.
No one else may have noticed when he made himself into the best back on the whole team, but his mom was there every step of the way.
They laugh. How powerful that is, the fact that they can still make each other do that.
Fighting isn’t hard. It’s the starting and stopping that are hard. Once you’re actually fighting, it happens more or less instinctively. The complicated thing about fighting is daring to throw the first punch, and then, once you’ve won, refraining from throwing that very last one.
When Leo started to play hockey, Peter got into a discussion with a coach who kept shouting and yelling the whole time. The coach said: “You have to frighten the little buggers to get them to listen!” Peter said nothing. But in the car on the way home he turned to Leo and explained: “When I was little, my dad used to hit me if I spilled my milk, Leo. That didn’t teach me not to spill things. It just made me scared of milk. Remember that.”
The room is silent enough for everyone to hear when his heart breaks.
Another morning comes. It always does. Time always moves at the same rate, only feelings have different speeds. Every day can mark a whole lifetime or a single heartbeat, depending on who you spend it with.
