Liz looks at the tissue box, which is decorated with drawings of snowmen engaged in various holiday activities. One of the snowmen is happily placing a smiling rack of gingerbread men in an oven. Baking gingerbread men, or any cooking for that matter, is probably close to suicide for a snowman, Liz thinks. Why would a snowman voluntarily engage in an activity that would in all likelihood melt him? Can snowmen even eat? Liz glares at the box.

It is a lie that people who love each other must know everything about each other. Love must occasionally allow for a gap.

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

It was strange, really. A couple months ago, I had thought I couldn’t live without him. Apparently I could.

A life isn't measured in hours and minutes. It's the quality, not the length.

Each period had required me to be a slightly different person, and that was exhausting. I wondered if school had always felt this way and whether it was like this for everone.

It's sad when you think about it, but also kind of beautiful.