Nina Varela Quotes

Another lie. This one better than the last, though.

She had known Ayla for less than an hour total, and already she knew what she wanted.

I want queer authors to write anything and everything they need to write. I have no interest in gatekeeping; I want the full spectrum. I want the coming out books. I want the books about queer suffering. I want on-page catharsis and exploration of trauma. I want the happy books, too: queer joy books, cute romantic comedies, first crush books, fantasies about queer royals and revolutionaries and spaceship captains. (...) We need all types of queer stories because all types of queer people exist. I want the market to be so saturated with queer books that anyone who needs to see themselves in a story - anyone who hasn't yet seen themselves, hasn't yet gotten to be the hero - can walk into any bookstore and find a book (or six) about someone who experiences the world like they do. I want every queer author to get the chance to tell their story. To tell people, We exist everywhere. We suffer, we survive, we love. We can be magic, too.

Ayla wanted to see her break things, wanted to see her broken, wanted to watch her break apart, wanted to be the cause of it.

If longing is madness, then none of us are sane.

Those foxes were wild, though. Wild, frightened, ready to run. Claws and teeth and matted fur. Sometimes that was Ayla. Most times it was not.

There was something terrible in her, something clawed and angry and afraid and sad… The truth of Ayla, the pain of her, was like a song you could feel vibrating on the air, even if you didn't know the words. It was a hum, low and throaty and full of sorrow.

You must keep this a secret," Crier insisted. "You must.

The second was something she would not admit to herself, could not put into words because even thinking about it made her heart feel like a bridge giving way tumbling down into water, all her pieces carried off by the current of something far older and more powerful than she was.

Crier wanted to study her like a map. Draw an easy path between all the specific yet scattered points of her.

It might have sounded as if she was arguing because she cared about humankind. Which she did.

Justice was a god, and Ayla didn't believe in such childish things. She believed in blood.

Did something happen?"
"No," said Ayla, her voice wooden. "Nothing happened."
, Crier thought.

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It was the way their skin stretched over their hand-designed muscles and bones. Like it could barely keep all the monster inside.

Which illness gives you stomach pains and a limp," Crier muttered, helping Ayla through the green door of the inn.
"A bad one," Ayla retorted.

You're not breathing," Ayla finally said.

Her family's death had left her not a person but a ghost, a ruined shell, a carcass. The parts that had survived would be tainted forever.

Perhaps the butterfly was actually a wasp.

She carried the same intensity about her, like heat waves rising from her skin, even though she was just standing in the doorway and not currently in the middle of saving Crier's life. Like she was more than a human girl. Like she was a summer storm made flesh.

She had never really seen a pair of eyes like this. It was like standing in the doorway to a dark room, like balancing on a threshold, holding a lantern up and watching how it kissed some things gold and left other things in shadow. It was the kind of dark that hid and held a lot of things. A hot fluid dark, a summer tide pool dark, a wild breathless dark.