When she is happy, she can't stop talking, when she is sad she doesn't say a word.

Bridget's anger evaporated and the sadness came back. The anger was easier. She owned and contolled it, whereas the sadness owned her.

Something about giving in without a fight felt wrong.

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.

Sometimes he felt sure that the key to happiness was a poor memory.

She cared about him too much, and he was a dangerous person to love. He wouldn't love her back.

Let me love you, but don't love me back. Do love me and let me hate you for a while. Let me feel like I have some control, because I know I never do.