We could call you an ambisexual. A duosexual. A—” “Do I really have to find a word for it?” Kyle interrupts. “Can’t it just be what it is?” “Of course,” I say, even though in the bigger world I’m not so sure. The world loves stupid labels. I wish we got to choose our own. We pause for a moment. I wonder if that’s all—if he just needed to say the truth and have it heard. But then Kyle looks at me with unsure eyes and says, “You see, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.” “Nobody does,” I assure him.

I know from experience that beneath every peripheral girl is a central truth. She’s hiding hers away, but at the same time she wants me to see it.

It's hard to answer a question you haven't been asked. It's hard to show you tried unless you end up succeeding.

But I want to feel like life matters. I had something real with you, but then the realness scared me. I decided to go for other things instead.

I am starting to get tired of relying on words.

We pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast it to the technicolor of the moment.

I had a sense then of how if we truly understood how many of the unimportant things we do will end up outliving us, we'd never be able to go on.