Quotes About Vulnerability

It gave her a creeping sense of impending aloneness, like she was some orphaned animal raised by do-gooders, soon to be released into the wild. She didn't want to be released into the wild. She wanted to be held dear .

My phone buzzes. It's from Karou: a list of conversation openers that I won't be needing. —a) Hi. I'm Zuzana. I'm actually a marionette brought to life by the Blue Fairy, and the only way I can gain a soul is if a human falls in love with me. Help a puppet out? —b) Hi. I'm Zuzana. The touch of my lips imparts immortality. Just sayin'. —c) Hi. I'm Zuzana. I think I might like you.

Finding Akiva's door still closed, Liraz gave a chuff of derision and didn't knock but only crashed it open and glared at the sight that greeted them. Akiva and Karou, eyes bleary with desire, facing each other on a stone slab and touching, hands to hearts... "Well," Liraz said, her voice as dry as the rest of her was not. "At least you still have your clothes on.

Her courage was a guise. She wondered if courage always was, or if there were those who truly felt no fear.

I might try that one thing, you know, that thing people do when their eyes get all wet and stupid—what's it called? Crying? Or NOT. I might PUNCH you instead and trust that you won't punch me back because of my endearing smallness. It would be like punching a child.

I have not yet elected to bestow the grace of my saliva upon another human being. I have never… kissed anyone.

You're doing so well." At being Thiago, she meant. "It's a little eerie." "Eerie," he repeated. "Convincing. A few times I almost forgot--" He didn't let her finish. "Don't forget. Not ever. Not for a second." He drew in breath. "Please." So much behind that word. Please don't forget I'm not a monster. Please don't forget what I gave up. Please don't forget me.

My face responds without authorization from my brain, so the resulting smile feels like the biggest, most unguarded, goofiest smile I've ever unleashed in my entire life. I didn't even know my face could do this. It's like there were hidden zippers in my cheeks. Jesus. This must be what feelings are. This is why people write poems! I get it now. I get it, and I want more.

It had worked. She understood. Things can kill you. All kinds of things, like toys, or older brothers. And as she'd grown up, that list had just gotten longer and longer.

There is intimacy in pain. Anyone who has comforted a sufferer knows it—the helpless tenderness, the embrace and murmur and slow rocking together as two become one against the enemy, pain

Around Mik, my powers desert me. I lose basic motor function, like my brain focuses all neural activity on my lips and shifts into kiss preparedness mode way too early, to the detriment of things like speech, and walking.

She stabbed him in the armpit, deep, and he dropped his sword. And died. So that's what is feels like, she thought as her boldness gave away to trembling. It feels awful.

This new thing between them it was... Astral. It reshaped the air, and it was in her, too—a warming and softening, a pull—and for that moment, her hands in his, Karou felt as powerless as starlight tugged toward the sun in the huge, strange warp of space.

It's easy to make people cry. Grief, humiliation, anger—there are countless avenues to tears. It's easy to make them scream, too. There are so many things to fear.

The audacity to love. Do you know what a gift that is?

Eril-Fane let out a slow breath. "Were you afraid of the dark as a child?" A chill snaked up Lazlo's spine. He thought again of the crypt at the abbey, and the nights locked in with dead monks. "Yes," he said simply. "Even when you knew, rationally, that there was nothing in it that could harm you." "Yes." "Well. We are all children in the dark, here in Weep.

Why not open the door, and open their arms, and close them again around each other? Did the not understand how, in the strange chemistry of human emotion, his suffering and her, mingled together, could... countervail each other?

Then there were things-- epic, terrible things-- that he didn't tell her but skirted around, like caressing the edges of a wound, hesitant, testing for pain.

The youth are the spoils of war.

She hadn't expected to be sorry, and at first she wasn't. The act itself was neither disappointing nor magical; it was what it was: a new closeness. A shared secret.

Don't look at me like that," said Ruza. "Like what?" "Like I'm a beautiful book you're about to open and plunder with your greedy mad eyes.

Hay intimidad en el dolor. Cualquiera que haya consolado a alguien que sufre lo sabe —la indefensa ternura, los abrazos y susurros, y el lento balanceo conjunto mientras dos se vuelven uno contra el enemigo, el dolor—.

Oh, Astrae, we have kept you too safe if it is us that you fear.

Feelings. Were. Stupid