God, how I loved him. Not him exactly, let me try again: I loved his ghost.

I would love to work with Morgan Freeman. I love him.

The city was radiant and I felt untouchable.

She re-marked her lips with her lipstick. I saw sprays of silver in her coarse hair. I saw inscriptions of her years around her mouth, a solid crease between her brows from a lifetime of cynicism. The posture of a woman who had stood in a casual spotlight in every room she'd ever been in, not for gloss or perfection, for self-possession. Everything she touched she added an apostrophe to.

I, on the other hand, do. I have the same damn weakness I’ve always had. It’s still there as I stare up at the big screen. As I watch Jamie Canning stop another dizzying slap shot. As I admire the grace and deadly precision with which he moves.
My weakness is him.

When a girl says "your beautiful" to a boy what she means by that is that she wants to be with you forever<3