No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.

Hope is cruel. Hope reminds me of what almost was. Hope makes the physical ache return.

When I was seventeen, I worked as a counsellor at a co-ed sleep-away camp for eight weeks. I loved it but it could be harrowing - it was far too much responsibility for someone my age.

..."better to have loved and lost" bullshit. Don't show me paradise and then burn it down.

There are few times that I feel more at peace, more in tune, more Zen, if you will, than when I force myself to unplug.

I am, after all, a thriller writer. I routinely delve into the darkest chambers of the human heart. I've written about murder, kidnapping, depravity, horror, violence, and disfigurement.

...desperation can toy with you and if you give desperation any wiggle room, it will find alternative answers