Mr. Van Houten,
I’m a good person, but a shitty writer. You’re a shitty person, but a good writer. I think we’d make a good team. I don’t want to ask you for any favors, but if you have the time, and from what I saw, you have plenty. Please fix this for me, it’s a eulogy for Hazel. She asked me to write one and I’m trying, I just I could use a little flare. See the thing is, we all want to be remembered, but Hazel is different. Hazel knows the truth. She didn’t want a million admirers, she just wanted one. And she got it. Maybe she wasn’t loved widely, but she was loved deeply. And isn’t that more than what most of us get? When Hazel was sick, I knew I was dying, but I didn’t want to say so. She was in the ICU when I snuck in for 10 minutes and I sat with her before I got caught. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, but her hands were still her hands. So warm and her nails were painted this dark blue black color and I just held them. Then I willed myself to imagine a world without us. What a worthless world that would be. She’s so beautiful, you don’t get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she’s smarter than you because you know she is. She’s funny without ever being mean. I love her, God I love her. I’m so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have say in who hurts you. And I like my choices, I hope she likes hers. Okay, Hazel Grace? 

Augustus Waters - The Fault in Our Stars (via books-and-cookies)

I really want to know…


Is there anyone out there that is 30 or over? Sometimes I feel like the oldest person here.  If you are 30+ please reblog this.

Imagination is the highest form of research.

Albert Einstein (via observando)

In the twilight of morphling, Peeta whispers the word and I go searching for him. It’s a gauzy, violet-tinted world, with no hard edges, and many places to hide. I push through cloud banks, follow faint tracks, catch the scent of cinnamon, of dill. Once I feel his hand on my cheek and try to trap it, but it dissolves like mist through my fingers.

(Source: seaquell)

Lionsgate: Look! We're doing some promotion!

Lionsgate: Here, have these posters.

Me: Where's Katniss?

Lionsgate: ...

Me: Where's Peeta?

Lionsgate: But there's Gale! We gave you Gale.

Me: Where's the trailer?

Lionsgate: Here, have some posters.


Peeta’s lips are turning blue. If I don’t do something quickly, he’ll die of asphyxiation and then I’ll have lost him and Cato will probably use his body as a weapon against me.

THG - Suzanne Collins

"and then I´ll have lost him", but she doesn´t want to lose the boy with the bread

“Then I made things worse, too. By giving the money,” says Peeta. Suddenly he strikes out at a lamp that sits precariously on a crate and knocks it across the room, where it shatters against the floor. “This has to stop. Right now. This — this—game you two play, where you tell each other secrets but keep them from me like I’m too inconsequential or stupid or weak to handle them.”

“It’s not like that, Peeta—” I begin.

“It’s exactly like that!” he yells at me. “I have people I care about, too, Katniss! Family and friends back in District Twelve who will be just as dead as yours if we don’t pull this thing off. So, after all we went through in the arena, don’t I even rate the truth from you?”

Angry Peeta makes me pant

It’s true his family doesn’t need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.

(Source: always-everlark)