Mine. The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it's not going to encourage anyone's betterment.

There are no words for how much I will miss her, but I try to kiss her so that she'll know. I try to kiss her to tell her the whole story of my love, the way I dreamed of her when she was dead, the way that every other girl seemed like a mirror that showed me her face. The way my skin ached for her. The way that kissing her made me feel like I was drowning and like I was being saved all at the same time. I hope she can taste all that, bittersweet, on my tongue.

He wondered whether growing up was learning that most stories turned out to be lies.

Flattery will get you everywhere," Sam says, "Except, apparently, off a roof.

If I'm not a murderer," asked Corny, "how come I keep killing people?

You carried my heart in your hands tonight," he said. "But I have felt as if you carried it long before that.

She suddenly understood why she had let him kiss her in the diner, why she had wanted him at all. She wanted to control him. He was every arrogant boyfriend that had treated her mother badly. He was every boy that told her she was too freaky, who had laughed at her, or just wanted her to shut up and make out. He was a thousand times less real than Roiben.