Taylor Jenkins Reid

I had absolutely no interest in being somebody else’s muse.
I am not a muse.
I am the somebody.

“You and I aren’t going to spend our lives together,” Jesse says. “But I finally understand that that doesn’t take away any of the beauty of the fact that we were right for each other once.”

“True love doesn’t always last,” I say. “It doesn’t always have to be for a lifetime.”

“Right. And that doesn’t mean it’s not true love,” Jesse says.

It was real.

And now it’s over.

And that’s OK.

“I am who I am because I loved you once,” he says.

“I am who I am because I loved you once, too,” I say.

And then we say good-bye.

You don’t tie yourself to something unless you’re scared you might float away.

Daisy would often ask to get her hair cut just because she loved her hairdresser, she would ask neighbors if she could walk their dogs, there was even a family joke about the time Daisy tried to bake a birthday cake for the mailman

We love broken, beautiful people. And it doesn’t get much more obviously broken and more classically beautiful than Daisy Jones.

There’s this peace that comes with knowing you have a person in the world who would do anything for you, that you would do anything for. She was the first time I ever had that.

I had felt too much vulnerability too young. I didn’t want to do it anymore

That’s how it was back then. I was just supposed to be the inspiration for some man’s great idea.
Well, fuck that.
That’s why I started writing my own stuff.

You can justify anything. If you’re narcissistic enough to believe that the universe conspires for and against you—which we all are, deep down—then you can convince yourself you’re getting signs about anything and everything

And she said, “A part of me wishes you wanted kids, because my kids make me so happy. But … I think in order to be happy like I’m happy, you need different things. And I want you to have whatever those things are.” And I started crying, then. Because somebody understood.