And you… do you know what you are?” “Stupid?” “Beautiful,” he says, his face turning red.

I love books. I like that the moment you open one and sink into it you can escape from the world, into a story that's way more interesting that yours will ever be.

I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t think he’d ever really notice me, and in the end, he didn’t.

I see what grief does, how it strips you bare, shows you all the things you don't want to know. That loss doesn't end, that there isn't a moment where you are done, when you can neatly put it away and move on.

I thought living dead girls couldn't feel pain, thought I was emptied out but I'm not, I'm not.

That's you, right?' he asks me. 'Yeah.' 'Cute. Not that I, uh, think little kids are cute. Just that you were cute. I mean, you can see how you turned out to be so...oh.

But I know a lie when I hear one.