She kept walking. The very small, brave part of her brain knew that this would be her one chance. If she turned around, she would lose it.

He's had a lot of chances to care, and he hasn't.

A part of her wanted to tell him she still loved him, and that even though this love was hopeless and long over, it still consumed her year after year. It was a tangled hairball of feelings and she couldn't pull forth any one strand.

You hold on to old experiences: injuries, injustices, and great love affairs, too. And you hold them in your joints and your organs, and wear them on your skin.

If you didn't have a choice, you had to make a choice. If you didn't have options, you made some. You couldn't just let this world happen to you... he didn't see eternity. He saw this girl and this moment and this one slim chance.

To write a story, I think you really have to open yourself up to the world.

No matter how far back you cut a willow tree, it will never really die.