I want to make her cry and then lick up the tears.

Something special is ending, and you're sad, but you can't be that said because, hey, it was good while it lasted, and there'll be other vacations, other good times.

I don't know who I am. Or maybe I do know who I am and I just don't want to be her anymore.

But then Mason touches my neck, to the spot on it where the cut from that night has since healed, and I pull away. He was right, after all; it didn't leave a scar, though part of me wishes it had. At least I'd have some evidence, some justification of this permanence. Stains are even worse when you're the only one who can see them.

But it's a big ocean. It's an even bigger world. And maybe we've gotten as close as we're supposed to get.

...the world feels so big when you're out in the wide open. It's like you don't have a place in it when you don't have a home." "Your place is right here," I whispered, laying down and hugging her close.

Because I understand all the ways of trying to escape, how sometimes you escape one prison only to find you've built yourself a different one.