Someday, you do not know when, you will be driving down the road and someday, you do not now when, you will make a wrong tun. At the end of the road, when you're least expecting it, he (or indeed she) will be there.

I'm allergic to sad memories. It's the worst.

We are not quite novels. We are not quite short stories. In the end, we are collected works

I was crying a little for the boy I had wanted him to be and the boy he hadn’t turned out to be.

For the longest time after that, neither of us said anything. I was unaccustomed to his silence, but I didn't mind it. I knew near everything about him, and he knew near everything about me, and all that made our quiet a kind of song. The kind you hum without even knowing what it is or why you're humming it. The kind that you've always known.

My beautiful Win. I wanted to kiss him on every last broken place, but his mother and my lawyer were there. So, instead I started to cry.

In the end, the end of a life only matters to friends, family, and other folks you used to know. For everyone else, it's just another end.