Quotes About Nostalgia

Maybe that was how it was with all first loves. They own a little piece of your heart, always. Conrad at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, even seventeen years old. For the rest of my life, I would think of him fondly, the way you do your first pet, the first car you drove. Firsts were important.

And in the end, he would become a memory, pressed in my heart like a leaf in my book.

It was like coming home after you'd been gone a long, long time. It held a million promises of summer and of what just might be.

Aching familiar in a way that made me wish I was still eight. Eight was before death or divorce or heartbreak. Eight was just eight. Hot dogs and peanut butter, mosquito bites and splinters, bikes and boogie boards. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Judy Blume, in bed by nine thirty.

The air tasted just the same, smelled just the same. The wind making my hair feel sticky, the salty sea breeze, all of it felt just right. Like it had been waiting for me to get there.

Maybe that was how it was with all first loves. They own a little piece of your heart, always. Conrad at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, even seventeen years old.

A memory, pressed into my heart like a leaf in a book.

I like to save things. Not important things like whales or people or the environment. Silly things. Porcelain bells, the kind you get at souvenir shops. Cookie cutters you'll never use, because who needs a cookie in the shape of a foot? Ribbons for my hair. Love letters. Of all the things I save, I guess you could say my love letters are my most prized possession.

He has the look of a Handsome Boy from a different time. He could be a dashing World War I soldier, handsome enough for a girl to wait years for him to come back from war, so handsome she could wait forever.

Growing up really is bittersweet.

The brief walk--from the screened-in porch outside to the Hearse--was one of those moments he knew he'd remember and look back on, one of those moments that he'd try to capture in the stories he told. Nothing was happening, really, but the moment was thick with mattering.

Josh and I started out so easy, so fun, and now we're like strangers. I'll never have that person back, who I knew better than anyone and who knew me so well.

When someone's been gone a long time, at first you save up all the things you want to tell them. You try to keep track of everything in your head. But it's like trying to hold on to a fistful of sand: all the little bits slip out of your hands, and then you're just clutching air and grit.

He smells like pool, and summer, and vacations. It's not like in the movies. It's better, because it's real.

She'd known me my whole life. It's hard to throw away history. It was like you were throwing a part of yourself.

I remember what it felt like to fall in love for the first time. You think you'll never love like that again. But you do.

I wished I could stay forever, in this moment. Like in one of those plastic snowballs, one little moment frozen in time.

It still feels weird to spend money on Christmas trees. Back when Mom was alive, we'd go out "tree hunting." That's what she called it, anyway. I think other people might use the word "trespassing.

Do you like Cam?" the girl asked me casually. I wondered how she knew him—I thought he'd been a nobody just like me. "I barely even know him," I told her, and her face relaxed. She was relieved. I recognized that look in her eyes—dreamy and hopeful. It must have been the way I looked when I used to talk about Conrad, used to try to think of ways to insert his name into conversation. It made me sad for her, for me.

Josh: But colored lights are whimsical. I mean they're nostalgic Lara Jean: Whimsical, Josh?

It's probably because you were each other's firsts. That's why you can't let each other go. I've heard that's how it is with firsts, especially with guys.

How do you regret one of the best nights of your entire life? You don't. You remember every word, every look. Even when it hurts, you still remember.

My Pocahontas-meets-seventies-Cher-style shirt. Oh, how I loved that shirt

You'd always be mourning what once was. It would always be a little bit . . . less.