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“It’s going to be okay,” Noam said from over his shoulder. His hand caught Dara’s, their bodies pressed together by the mob. Dara turned to look at him—and for a moment it was like nothing else existed. He tipped his face forward and rested his brow against Noam’s. He focused on Noam’s eyes, on the little threads of gold weaving through Noam’s irises like striations in marble.
“I’m scared,” Dara admitted, softly enough he couldn’t even hear himself say it.
But Noam must have, because he curved an arm around Dara’s waist and drew him in, burying his own face against Dara’s hair. “Me too.”
― Victoria Lee, The Electric Heir

“Cried over fiction instead of the truth.”
― Nina LaCour, We Are Okay

“He caught her staring: at the fall of his dark hair, at the dimpled line in his chin where her little finger fit, at his dark eyes and the flame dancing inside them from her mom's new Autumn Spice candle. His eyes were always bright somehow, dazzling, like from within. Ravi Singh was the opposite of dead- eyed. The antidote. Pip needed him to remind herself of that sometimes. So she watched him, took him all in, left none of him behind.”
― Holly Jackson, As Good As Dead

“Wasn’t friendship its own miracle, the finding of another person who made the entire lonely world seem somehow less lonely?”
― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life