She craves real stories. Nothing you can give her is close to reality, so she craves real stories.
I told Chelsea that I hadn’t slept with him-at least, not in that sense. When, after we’d drained our coffees, I stood to walk away I winced from the sharpness in my abdomen.
There’s nothing I want more than to tell you the truth.
There’s nothing I want less than for you to know the truth.
As he squeezed her hand and looked deep into her eyes, she wondered if it was only her eyes he could see, or if he was able to look through them and into the dark lair where she kept her secrets hidden.
She blinked a couple times and looked away, an innocent smile on her face, deceptively stealing interest in the beauty of their surroundings, not yet ready for her eyes to plead guilty.
I hate it when activist writers take cheap shots at their political rivals in their fiction stories.
You just alienated half of your audience, assholes!
you fucking lie through your teeth like you were being sentenced to death. i asked for the truth, and all you did was throw a flashbang in front of me and run.
Somehow, goodbye never feels easy in the mouth; it catches in the throat and twists the tongue and you end up saying, “I’ll see you soon.” As you close the curtain on your way out, the gentle white lie is laid bare and its grim implications jolt you to a halt.