I'd be smiling and chatting away, and my mind would be floating around somewhere else, like a balloon with a broken string.

I don’t know what it means to live.

With each passing moment I'm becoming part of the past. There is no future for me, just the past steadily accumulating.

I want to believe you, but if that's true, I just don't get it. Why does loving somebody mean you have to hurt them just as much? I mean, if that's the way it goes, what's the point of loving someone?

You’re optimistic one moment, only to be racked the next by the certainty that it will all fall to pieces. And in the end it does.

My arm was not what she needed, but the arm of someone else. My warmth was not what she needed, but the warmth of someone else.

She was hearing everything that went on in his heart, like a person who can trace a map with his fingertip and conjure up vivid, living scenery.