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.

Lena realized that a fundamental layer of their happiness depended on the four of them being close to one another. Their lives were independent and full. Their friendship was only one aspect of their lives, but it seemed to give meaning to all the others.

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

I love her. I need her. I gave away everything I had for her. I just wanted her to know me.

All the things she planned to feel, the way she planned to look and seem, the appropriate things she planned to say. None of them came to pass.

Gestating characters feels something like the mental equivalent of gestating a baby. In both cases, to create them you lose yourself. Or at least you reshape yourself to encompass them.

She was supposed to be putting her life together right now, and all she could seem to do was throw grenades at it.