Quotes About Regret

Good-bye, Da. Go to hell. I hope I'm not there waiting.

must not have known the difference, and it makes me sick when I realize all that I got wrong. I slow the Jeep as another big vehicle swings around a sharp curve ahead—the Johansens. They are car-proud people; the SUV's black finish glints perfection, and there isn't even a fine film of dust. So much

Killing someone isn't like in the movies, something that you shrug off with a quip and a drink. It eats at you, even when the person you kill unquestionably has to die. And there's no way that her feelings about Melvin aren't, at the very deepest level, still complicated.

You know, sweetheart, the thing I most regret is that we never got to have that house by the lake that you and I talked about so often. It sounds like paradise, doesn't it? I can almost see it, you sitting on the porch in the moonlight, watching the lake at night. That image gives me peace. I hope you're not sharing it with anyone else but me.

It wasn't her fault

Another thing I don't want on my tombstone, Shane said. You have others? Claire asked. He held up one finger. I thought it wasn't loaded, Shane said. Second finger. Hand me a match so I can check the gas tank. Third finger. Killed over ice cream. Basically, any death that requires me to be stupid first.

take her he said Oliver is not going to be pleased, boy. Better go. I had to, Michael said. I had to stake him. He was going to kill her. In point of fact, he wasn't; he was going to hurt her so badly that Amelie would feel it, that's al. But that's not what I meant. You crashed a car into the limousine. Oliver loves his limousine. Michael opened his mouth, then closed it without thinking of anything to say to that.

Fuck me. Fuck me for always getting into situations like this. Fuck me for caring. Fuck me for not knowing the words that would've made her stay. Fuck me for not knowing what I want. Fuck me for wavering. Fuck me for not kissing her back the right way. Fuck me for getting my hopes up. Fuck me for not having more realistic hopes. Fuck me for giving her my fucking jacket. Fuck.

What I'm sorry about is not being a tipsy idiot when you found me. I'm sorry about that, obviously, but more sorry that my stupidity caused us to lose a great opportunity. I don't imagine you would have met me and fallen crazy in love with me, but I would like to think that if you'd had a chance to meet me under different circumstances, something just as nice could have happened. We could have become friends.

I knew she was leaving. I knew we were never going to date long-distance. I knew that we wouldn't have been able to be like this back when we were dating, so there was no use in regretting what hasn't happened. I suspected that what happens in hotel rooms rarely lasts outside of them. I suspected that when something was a beginning and an ending at the same time, that meant it could only exist in the present.

The worse people feel the next day, the better the party.

Driver, can you tell him that I'm sorry? I wasn't supposed to be like this. I swear.

I made the mistake of turning back to look at her one last time before I left the room. It was heartbreaking, really—she just sat there, stunned. She looked like she was waking up in a strange place—only she knew she hadn't gone to sleep yet, and that this was actually life.

I started to write: Langston deserves to be sick. But I erased that and wrote, Okay. I'll make him some.

Fuck her. Fuck her for getting in that cab. Fuck her for fucking with my mind. Fuck her for not knowing what she wants. Fuck her for dragging me into it. Fuck her for being such a fantastic kisser. Fuck her for ruining my favorite band. Fuck her for barely saying a word to me before she left. Fuck her for not waving. Fuck her for getting my hopes up. Fuck her for making my hopes useless. Fuck her for taking off with my fucking jacket. Fuck me.

Fuck me for always getting into situations like this. Fuck me for caring. Fuck me for not knowing the words that would've made her stay. Fuck me for not knowing what I want. Fuck me for wavering. Fuck me for not kissing her back the right way. Fuck me for getting my hopes up. Fuck me for not having more realistic hopes. Fuck me for giving her my fucking jacket. Fuck.

I instantly regretted my comeback but that's the thing about unkind words. You can try to undo the damage, but (a) it's hard when you're all coffee-ed up, and (b) you can't take it back, ever.

The story that had once singed and flared in her had long since receded, as her habit of silence turned, over the decades, into law. Did she mean to take it to the grave with her, then? Plainly, that was what she was going to do. She was going to take it to the grave. And it would end there. Dust.

And her eyes filled with heavy, regretful tears, yet she did not quite know for what she was weeping. She only knew that some great sense of loss, some great sense of incompleteness possessed her, and she let the tears trickle down her face, wiping them off one by one with her finger.

Regret of neglected opportunity is the worst hell that a living soul can inhabit

Imagination was so powerful that you had to be careful because you could imagine things into existence that you might regret.

A part of me knew... from the moment I saw her; her death would have been one wound too many that day.

Nobody's inherently bad, said Annamaria. It's all about the choices we make. And the Deceiver, said Blossom, is always there to whisper the wrong choice in your ear. But I believe remorse can lead to redemption.

a wasted opportunity wasn't just a missed chance, but was a wound to your future. Miss too many opportunities, thus sustaining too many wounds, and you wouldn't have a future at all.