I could die in this bed with him right now, wrapped in his arms and I would never know that I had died.

I shattered that memory by going back there. Without realizing it until it was too late, I replaced that memory with the emptiness of that day.

It’s like irresistible poison: I’m mesmerized by the way it’s making me feel though it has the potential to crush my soul and I drink it down anyway.

When we pull away, he rests his hand on my thigh pressed next to his and we ride like that for a long time; the only time he moves his hand is to take better control of a sharp curve or to adjust the music, but he always puts it right back. And I always want him to.

I think it was the one thing I didn’t like about him or about guys in general: when a girl says she doesn’t want to talk about it, the truth is that she usually does. I wanted him to pry it out of me. Of course, I would’ve pretended to be a little angry that he didn’t just leave me alone, but eventually I would’ve told him, when I was tired of pretending.

all I want to do is pull her against me and hold her until we both die.

Why does everybody have to be with somebody? It’s a stupid delusion and a really pathetic way of thinking.