I don't really care. I shouldn't have to care. I shouldn't have to work this hard. I realize now that dying is easy. Living is hard.

That’s the thing you never expect about grieving, what a competition it is.

Sometimes fate or life or whatever you want to call it, leaves a door a little open and you walk through it. But sometimes it locks the door and you have to find the key, or pick the lock, or knock the damn thing down. And sometimes, it doesn’t even show you the door, and you have to build it yourself.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to have had her company in my head—the comfort that would’ve brought.

I want to ask him where that kitchen is. Where he's from. But he seems guarded. Or maybe it's me. Maybe making friends is a specific skill, and I missed the lesson.

It's funny the things you think you're scared of until they're upon you, and then you're not.

Really? Was that how you quit me?