the older I get, the more I look back on my favorite YA heroines with a growing sense of protective mothering, like I want to gather them all up in my arms and go “you did what when you were sixteen? oh no, get back inside, Chosen One or whatever you’re going by these days, let me swaddle you in blankets and we can eat some chocolate and I’ll tell you how you’re great without having to fulfill the prophecy.”

"…leave your sword and love triangle outside, thank you"