Just... ate," M says, frowning at me a little. "Two days...ago." I grab my stomach again. "Feel empty. Feel... dead." He nods. "Marr...iage.

In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.

I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

Here it comes. My inevitable death, ignoring me all those years when I wished for it daily, arriving only after I've decided I want to live forever.

All my life I have battled the alarm clock, pummeling the snooze button over and over with mounting self-loathing until the shame is finally strong enough to lever me upright.

Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.

The moment the light went out, everyone stopped pretending.