Dying isn’t like living; it requires no effort at all.

I know just how he feels that it’s come to this. Sometimes, love isn’t enough, even when it’s all you have.

We stood back-to-back, blocking and striking in harmony; sometimes it felt like his arms and legs were an extension of me. I could count on him to keep them off me from behind.

Love can make us do dreadful things.

But I miss the woman I was, even as I learn to accept the new creature I’ve become.

Men can be very stupid. We cease to value what we have until it's gone, and only then do we realize the gold we glimpsed in distant hills pales as dross compared to treasure we had in hand.

Possessiveness isn’t love. I’m not even sure it qualifies as an emotion.