Sometimes you couldn’t face the sadness of being forgotten until you felt the comfort of being remembered again.

Someday was the thing he had, because it was a lot harder to ruin than today.

She wasn’t sure if he wanted more from her or if he wanted less. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was always both.

She existed in her friends; there she was. All the parts of herself she'd forgotten. She knew herself best when she was with them.

As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.

He'd pushed her. He'd scared her. He'd besieged her. He'd vowed he wouldn't, and he did.

You are not going to die, I know I said I'd let you, but I can't.