Her handwriting was curious — small sharp little letters with no capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?).

There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling.

What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?

I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.

Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living - or that either can be fatal?

True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.

The ‘equilibrium’ that people see in me is really an illusion. I am as flawed as anyone. It’s only that I seem to have the knack of hiding.