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“Tell me the story..
About how the sun loved the moon so much..
That she died every night..
Just to let him breathe...”
―
About how the sun loved the moon so much..
That she died every night..
Just to let him breathe...”
―
“Once I had asked God for one or two extra inches in height, but instead he made me as tall as the sky, so high that I could not measure myself.”
― I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban
― I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban
“He is half of my soul, as the poets say.”
― The Song of Achilles
― The Song of Achilles
“If one man can destroy everything, why can't one girl change it?”
― I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban
― I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban
“Achilles was looking at me. “Your hair never quite lies flat, here.” He touched my head, just behind my ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how I like it.”
My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said.
“I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?”
“No,” I said.
“This surely then.” His hand moved across the muscles of my chest; my skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told you of this?”
“That you have told me.” My breath caught a little as I spoke.
“And what of this?” His hand lingered over my hips, drew down the line of my thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”
“You have.”
“And this? Surely I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.”
“You did not.”
“There is this too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.”
I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said.”
― The Song of Achilles
My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said.
“I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?”
“No,” I said.
“This surely then.” His hand moved across the muscles of my chest; my skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told you of this?”
“That you have told me.” My breath caught a little as I spoke.
“And what of this?” His hand lingered over my hips, drew down the line of my thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”
“You have.”
“And this? Surely I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.”
“You did not.”
“There is this too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.”
I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said.”
― The Song of Achilles
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