Quotes Galore : Unravel Me (Shatter Me #2) by Tahereh Mafi

Quotes Galore : Unravel Me (Shatter Me #2) by Tahereh Mafi


When it comes to Young Adult these days, your girl is sorry to say but, she doesn’t really read a whole lot of them anymore. I used to be very into YA genre, but as of late, I find the storyline repetitive and very predictable to say the least.

Among all the Young Adult books that I have read, there are only a few that I claim to love unconditionally until the day I die. Shatter Me series, is one of them. It has been 7 years since the first installation to the Shatter Me series was first published, and I must say, I have loved this series for about that long as well. 

I can confidently say that Shatter Me series really was one of the very first books that pulled me down into the magical world that is YA genre. There is just something about the story, the world building, and especially the characters that make me always down for a re-read. Not to mention, recently – for some reason unbeknownst to me – I find myself thinking about Warner and Juliette a lot. Mostly Warner, but you get my drift. 

So in order to be able to relive the magic again, I have decided that I am going to take a walk down memory lane. Now, would you be so kind as to join me alongside this journey?


Feel free to click play : 




“But time is beyond our finite comprehension. It’s endless, it exists outside of us; we cannot run out of it or lose track of it or find a way to hold on to it. Time goes on even when we do not.”


“I want to feel all of it because what if I wake up to find this phenomenon has passed, that the expiration date has arrived, that my chance came and went and would never return.”


“Kenji is a walking paradox of Unflinchingly Serious Person and 12-Year-Old Boy Going Through Puberty all rolled into one.”


“Please—please get up—and lower your voice—”


“Hell no.”


“Why not?” I’m pleading now.


“Because if I lower my voice, I won’t be able to hear myself speak. And that,” he says, “is my favorite part.”




“Warner was supposed to be dead.

Warner was supposed to be dead because I was supposed to have shot him but no one supposed I’d need to know how to fire a gun so now I suppose he’s come to find me.

He’s come to fight.

For me.”




“I am not moody—”


“Yeah, bro.” Kenji puts his utensils down. “You are moody. It’s always ‘Shut up, Kenji.’ ‘Go to sleep, Kenji.’ ‘No one wants to see you naked, Kenji.’ When I know for a fact that there are thousands of people who would love to see me naked.”


“It’s hot rain and humid days and broken thermostats. It’s screaming teakettles and raging steam engines and wanting to take your clothes off just to feel a breeze.


It’s the kind of kiss that makes you realize oxygen is overrated.”


“Hope can make people do terrible things.”


“I want you to take me to wherever they went.”


Kenji is looking at me like I’ve just asked him to kick himself in the face. “Uh, yeah—how about a warm hell no to that request? Does that work for you? Because it works for me.”


“You’re the one who’s always going on about not wanting to talk about your feelings,” I snap.


“No,” he says. “I said I don’t want to talk about your feelings.” He points at me. “I have zero problem talking about my own.”


“So do you want to talk about your feelings?”


“Hell no.”


“He’s the kind of boy who was only ever taught to be a man, who was told to erase the concept of childhood from his life’s expectations. His lips do not dare to smile, his forehead does not crease in distress. He has been taught to disguise his emotions, to hide his thoughts from the world and to trust no one and nothing. To take what he wants by whatever means necessary.”




“But—now? In the middle of the night?”


“Shit hitting the fan doesn’t work around your schedule, princess.”




“Warner as a child. Warner as a son. Warner as a boy who has only a limited grasp of his own life. Warner with a father who would teach him a lesson by killing the one thing he’d ever be willing to beg for.


Warner as a human being terrifies me more than anything else.”


“The truth,” he says, “is a painful reminder of why I prefer to live among the lies.”


“What a lie appearances can be.


What a terrible, terrible lie.”


His hair is so gold. His eyes so green. His voice is tortured when he speaks.


“Are you saying,” he says, “that you want to be my friend?”


He says, “Juliette.”


I stop breathing.


He says, “I would like that very much. To be your friend,” he says. “I’d like that.”


“Nothing in this life will ever make sense to me but I can’t help but try to collect the change and hope it’s enough to pay for our mistakes.”




“Is it even possible,” he whispers, “that you can’t feel this fire between us?”




“Who are you?”


I don’t know this Warner. I’d never be able to recognize this Warner.


He smiles to himself. Sits down again. Says, “No one else will ever need to know.”


“What do you mean?”


“I know who I am,” he says. “That’s enough for me.”


“Sometimes I wonder about glue.

No one ever stops to ask glue how it’s holding up. If it’s tired of sticking things together or worried about falling apart or wondering how it will pay its bills next week.”


“You can always avoid killing people, Warner. You avoid killing them by not going to war.”


But he grins, so brilliantly, not even paying attention. “I love it when you say my name,” he says. “I don’t even know why.”


“Warner isn’t your name,” I point out. “Your name is Aaron.”


His smile is wide, so wide. “God, I love that.”


“Your name?”


“Only when you say it.”


“Aaron? Or Warner?”


His eyes close. He tilts his head back against the wall. Dimples.



“I count everything.

Even numbers, odd numbers, multiples of 10. I count the ticks of the clock I count the tocks of the clock I count the lines between the lines on a sheet of paper. I count the broken beats of my heart I count my pulse and my blinks and the number of tries it takes to inhale enough oxygen for my lungs. I stay like this I stand like this I count like this until the feeling stops. Until the tears stop spilling, until my fists stop shaking, until my heart stops aching.


There are never enough numbers.”




“And I realize then, right in this moment I realize that everything about him is intense. Nothing about him is manageable or easy to compartmentalize. He’s too much. Everything about him is too much. His emotions, his actions, his anger, his aggression.


His love.”


“I only have two options in this game, love.” He’s breathing hard. “Kill. Or be killed.”


“I can love him, but I can’t depend on him to be my backbone. I can’t be my own person if I constantly require someone else to hold me together.”


“I’m beginning to think of hope as a dangerous, terrifying thing.”


“Yes,” he says, he swallows, “I did. I do. I do want to be your friend.” He nods and I register the slight movement in the air between us. “I want to be the friend you fall hopelessly in love with. The one you take into your arms and into your bed and into the private world you keep trapped in your head. I want to be that kind of friend,” he says. “The one who will memorize the things you say as well as the shape of your lips when you say them. I want to know every curve, every freckle, every shiver of your body.”


“I want to know where to touch you,” he says. “I want to know how to touch you. I want to know how to convince you to design a smile just for me.” I feel his chest rising, falling, up and down and up and down and “Yes,” he says. “I do want to be your friend.” He says “I want to be your best friend in the entire world.”




I can’t understand why I can still hear him speaking because I’m dead, I’m already dead, I’ve died over and over and over again


He swallows, hard, his chest heaving, his words a breathless, shaky whisper when he says “I’m so—I’m so desperately in love with you.”




“But none of that even matters because he’s smiling.

He’s smiling like someone’s strung the stars across his lips and he’s looking at me, looking at me like I’m everything.”




“I want so many things,” he whispers. “I want your mind. Your strength. I want to be worth your time.” His fingers graze the hem of my top and he says “I want this up.” He tugs on the waist of my pants and says “I want these down.” He touches the tips of his fingers to the sides of my body and says, “I want to feel your skin on fire. I want to feel your heart racing next to mine and I want to know it’s racing because of me, because you want me. Because you never,” he says, he breathes, “never want me to stop. I want every second. Every inch of you. I want all of it.”


And he leans in, so carefully. 




He says “Please don’t shoot me for this.”


And he kisses me.


“He’s holding me like I’m made of feathers.


He’s holding my face and looking at his own hands like he can’t believe he’s caught this bird who’s always so desperate to fly away. His hands are shaking, just a little bit, just enough for me to feel the slight tremble against my skin. Gone is the boy with the guns and the skeletons in his closet. These hands holding me have never held a weapon. These hands have never touched death. These hands are perfect and kind and tender.”


“He’s searching me, searching my eyes for something, for yeses or nos or maybe a cue to keep going and all I want is to drown in him. I want him to kiss me until I collapse in his arms, until I’ve left my bones behind and floated up into a new space that is entirely our own.


No words.


Just his lips.




“His eyes shift down to my lips and back again. His gaze is heavy, hungry, weighed down by emotion I never thought him capable of. I never thought he could be so full, so human, so real. But it’s there. It’s right there. Raw, written across his face like it’s been ripped out of his chest.


He’s handing me his heart.”




“Warner laughs a loud, full-bodied laugh. Shakes his head. Smiles at me in that way I’ve only ever seen once before, looking at me like I’m the sweetest thing he’s ever decided to eat.

Those dimples.”




“His lips twitch. “You tried to kill me.”


“That amuses you.”


“Oh yes,” he says, his grin growing. “I find it fascinating.” A pause. “Would you like to know why?”


I stare at him.


“Because all you ever said to me,” he explains, “was that you didn’t want to hurt anyone. You didn’t want to murder people.”


“I don’t.”


“Except for me?”




“He has a hundred thousand million kisses and he’s giving them all to me.”




“You,” and he whispers it, letter by letter he presses the word into my skin before he hesitates.


His chest, heaving harder this time. His words, almost gasping this time. “You destroy me.”



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