I killed her once and died for her many times and I still have nothing to show for it. I always search for her ; I always remember her. I carry the hope that someday she will remember me.

I love you, I'll never stop.

You have been with me from the very first life. You are my first memory every time, the single thread in all of my lives. It`s you who makes me a person.

As much as I'm drawn to writing about teenage girls, I like the idea of having the freedom to branch out and write about different ages, for different ages.

She hadn't chosen the brave life. She'd chosen the small, fearful one.

There was a moment in between, a moment flung free in the midst of the transition, when he made contact. That was the moment she would dwell on.

She used to cry roughly three times a year. Now she seemed to cry three times before breakfast. Could that be considered progress?