Aching familiar in a way that made me wish I was still eight. Eight was before death or divorce or heartbreak. Eight was just eight. Hot dogs and peanut butter, mosquito bites and splinters, bikes and boogie boards. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Judy Blume, in bed by nine thirties.

— Jenny Han

Actually, judging by Pinterest alone, I'm pretty sure a lot of people would look forward to hanging out in such a beautiful library. Just not people Peter knows. He thinks I'm so quirky. I'm not planning on being the one to break the news to him that I'm actually not that quirky, that in fact lots of people like to stay home and bake cookies and scrapbook and hang out in libraries. Most of them are probably in their fifties, but still. I like the way he looks at me, like I am a wood nymph that he happened upon one day and just had to take home to keep.

— Jenny Han

And for a second, just for a second I forget. I forget that this isn't real.

— Jenny Han

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A burn for a burn. A life for a life. That's how all this got started. And that's how it's going to end.

— Jenny Han

But just because you bury something, that doesn’t mean it stops existing.

— Jenny Han

But what now? What am I supposed to do with all these feelings?

— Jenny Han

But you never said anything! Not one frigging word, Lara Jean!” Automatically I say, “Don’t say ‘frig.’ ”“Not one frigging word,” Kitty repeats with a shake of her head. Peter cracks up, and I give him a dirty look. “It all happened really fast,” he offers. “There was barely time to tell anybody—”“Was I talking to you?” Kitty snaps. “No, I don’t think so. I was talking to my sister.” Peter’s eyes widen, and I can see him trying to keep a straight face.

— Jenny Han

Don’t marry him. Don’t be with him. Be with me.

— Jenny Han

Do you think there's a difference? Between belonging with and belonging to?

— Jenny Han

For a minute there it was perfect. It was really, perfect. Wasn't it good? Maybe really, perfect things aren't meant to last for too long; maybe that's what makes them all the more sweet, the temporariness of them.

— Jenny Han