Perks Of Being A Wallflower Book Quotes Novels & Stories

Children ran past her with paper boats, their laughter echoing through the narrow lanes. An old woman hummed outside her flower stall. And the world for once felt like it wasn’t asking her to prove anything. She passed the bookstore where Liam once bought her poetry collections. The display window had changed a new release stood in the center titled “The Long Way Home.” She smiled at the coincidence. Inside, she flipped through the first few pages, and her eyes caught on a quote: “Forgiveness isn’t the end of love it’s the transformation of it.”

That was Phoebe's response. "Yeah, like that. How about you, Aunty? Any personal experiences?" Abigail had now turned half her body to look at the middle-aged woman behind her. "Aunty Phoebe is amazing. The female version of Don Juan or Casanova." "Well, of course. A girl should have self-respect. Girls should be chased, not chasing. If the guy is not worth it, why bother chasing him?" Continued Penelope with the Red Lipstick. Abigail smiled mockingly at her words.

I wish. If I had to describe myself—and trust me, I’ve had practice—it goes like this: for every breathtaking beauty, there’s always a girl with wild red curls, an awkward grin, and a face full of misplaced optimism. That’s me. The textbook definition of a wallflower. Your average, unremarkable high school nobody.

“I said do not pretend to be stupid. All you girls are alike, with your fake smiles and your stupid words. Nobody wants a women who is made out of wax.” “Oh,” is all I manage to say. He is right again. Something that keeps happening tonight. I wonder if Ida thinks of me as wax. If she thinks I have nothing of substance to offer. I pray she does not. For if I am wax she is slowly melting me down, and I fear under her touch I may become nothing at all.

Do your best. "I know I'm not the type of girl that you usually go out with. I'm not sexy, I'm not attractive and I'm no fun. I'm plain and boring with no charm at all. The only thing good about me is probably my brain, which everyone finds boring. But I must ask you this..." I took a deep breath and gathered all the courage I had to say the words that I never thought would ever come out of my mouth. I just hope that I'm doing the right thing and this will be the best solution for everything.

Three months later, the journey began. The first leg of The Fire We Share tour rolled out—not in luxury, but in purpose. Their white sprinter bus wasn’t glamorous, but it was home on wheels. Shelves lined with donated books. Warm golden lights overhead. And painted across both sides, three simple quotes from Sophia’s memoir: “You are not hard to love.” “Your silence was never a flaw. It was a pause.” “We don’t rise to impress. We rise to breathe.”

They were all adjusted alphabetically. He then randomly picked a book. ‘If I had your Face – By Frances Cha’ He read the title. He opened the book. On the first page, there was her name and a date written. The date when she either got the book or started reading it. He flipped through the pages. She had underlined some context. Marked notes somewhere. Scribbled replies to some lines. He laughed to himself. There was this line she had highlighted, “In New York, you can talk to anyone about anything at any time and have a conversation so long you'll fall a little in love with that person, and then never see them again.”

“I don’t like it when someone says they like me because I’m beautiful. What if I wasn’t born beautiful? Will they still like me? I guess not.” “I wonder how those pea-sized brain women gossiped about you saying you’re empty-headed when in fact that you have your own wit,” I whispered to myself as I opened the book where I inserted the bookmark few days ago. “W-what?” “Don’t worry. Beautiful or not, I still like you,” I said as I looked over the pages. “Did I heard it right?” I jumped a bit onto my seat after realizing what did I had just said when I saw her face in confusion.

I pushed all the old books in annoyance. There was a vase just beside it which I broke. I scattered everything still having no satisfaction. Coming down on my feet, I cried in disgust and so much pain. I began hitting the floor with anger. It was then I noticed something on the ground. A particular book stood out from others on the floor. It laid opened and there were words carved on it: “A wolf with powers never forgets his abilities.” Then there was another one. “And when darkness entails, I will lift you up.”

Maybe because I know how fragile joy is. “Stop overthinking,” Cass mutters, catching me in the act. She tosses me a grape, and it bounces off my arm. “Seriously, Dorothy. Smile for once. Own it. This is your story. Nobody else’s.” I pick up the grape and pop it in my mouth, sighing. She’s right. She’s so right. And when I walk past those shelves again, brushing my fingers along the spines, seeing my face in the reflection of the glossy covers, I whisper to myself, “For once, I own my story.”