Bridget cried for the leavers and the left. For the people, like herself, grimly forsaking what precious gifts they would ever get.

You thought you had the choice to stay still or move forward, but your didn't. As long as your heart kept pumping an your blood kept blowing and your lungs kept filling, you didn't. The pang she felt for Tibby carried something like envy. You couldn't stand still for anything short of death, and God knew she had tried.

She got tired of herself. She got tired of not being able to say what she wanted or do what she wanted or even want what she wanted.

Exactly! We run or we lose ourselves in something, somebody, anything to try and ease our pain.

It’s more that I’m afraid of time. And not having enough of it. Time to figure out who I’m supposed to be… to find my place in the world before I have to leave it. I’m afraid of what I’ll miss.

I'm afraid of time... I mean, I'm afraid of not having enough time. Not enough time to understand people, how they really are, or to be understood myself. I'm afraid of the quick judgements or mistakes everybody makes. You can't fix them without time. I'm afraid of seeing snapshots, not movies.

some people fall in love over and over again while some people can only do it once.