I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

link.

It's incomprehensible to me that so many people these days show no interest in literature at all. Books are so amazing. They make you experience the impossible, describe passion/love/fear/etc in ways you never could, they make you think/question/live. Looking for Alaska, a book I read a while ago now, is a classic example of all this, describing characters that I feel are only plausible in the pages of a novel.