I know the odds are all against me and I know you might not feel this way too but I know I would rather die trying to know if I could mean something to you

This is what love does: It makes you want to rewrite the world. It makes you want to choose the characters, build the scenery, guide the plot. The person you love sits across from you, and you want to do everything in your power to make it possible, endlessly possible. And when it’s just the two of you, alone in a room, you can pretend that this is how it is, this is how it will be.

Told her she was beautiful. Didn't give up when she didn't believe me.

I want to take back the secrets I told you so I can decide now whether to tell them to you again. I want to take back the piece of me that lies in you, to see if I truly miss it. I want to take back at least half the “I love you”s, because it feels safer that way.

I was attempting to write the story of my life. It wasn't so much about plot. It was much more about character.

We'd said we'd keep in touch. But touch is not something you can keep; as soon as it's gone, it's gone. We should have said we'd keep in words, because they are all we can string between us--words on a telephone line, words appearing on a screen.

The boy I loved didn't know I existed. Then again, he was obsessed with Camus, so he didn't know if any of us existed.