Tiffany

“He stared at her fists and at her face and said with upset incredulity, "You promised me you would forgive me-"
"Forgive you,"Tatiana hissed through her teeth, tears streaming down her face, "for your brave and indifferent face, Alexander!" She groaned in pain. "Not for your brave and indifferent heart.”
― Paullina Simons, The Bronze Horseman

“I just stare at him. I want to ask him a thousand questions, but I can tell he doesn't want to be asked.
"We make weird friends," I say instead.
"I've never been into the f-word with people."
"I'm privileged, then? Why me?"
He thinks for a moment and shrugs again.
"You're the realest person I've ever known."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's fucking awful. There's not much room for bullshit, and you know how I thrive on it."
We laugh for a moment and begin walking again.”
― Melina Marchetta, Saving Francesca

“Tatiana said. "Go on with Dasha. She is right for you. She is a woman and I'm-" "Blind!", Alexander exclaimed. Tatiana stood, desolately failing in the battle of her heart. "Oh, Alexander. What do you want from me..."
"Everything", he whispered fiercely.”
― Paullina Simons, The Bronze Horseman

“Auri hopped down from the chimney and skipped over to where I stood, her hair streaming behind her. "Hello Kvothe." She took a half-step back. "You reek."
I smiled my best smile of the day. "Hello Auri," I said. "You smell like a
pretty young girl."
"I do," she agreed happily.
She stepped sideways a little, then forward again, moving lightly on the balls of her bare feet. "What did you bring me?" she asked.
"What did you bring me?" I countered.
She grinned. "I have an apple that thinks it is a pear," she said, holding it up. "And a bun that thinks it is a cat. And a lettuce that thinks it is a lettuce."
"It's a clever lettuce then."
"Hardly," she said with a delicate snort. "Why would anything clever think it was a lettuce?"
"Even if it is a lettuce?" I asked.
"Especially then," she said. "Bad enough to be a lettuce. How awful to think you are a lettuce too." She shook her head sadly, her hair following the motion as if she were underwater.
I unwrapped my bundle. "I brought you some potatoes, half a squash,
and a bottle of beer that thinks it is a loaf of bread."
"What does the squash think it is?" she asked curiously, looking down at it. She held her hands clasped behind her back
"It knows it's a squash," I said. "But it's pretending to be the setting sun."
"And the potatoes?" she asked.
"They're sleeping," I said. "And cold, I'm afraid."
She looked up at me, her eyes gentle. "Don't be afraid," she said, and reached out and rested her fingers on my cheek for the space of a heartbeat, her touch lighter than the stroke of a feather. "I'm here. You're safe.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear