Actually, I love trying to figure out why certain books become hits while others, which may be just as good, have trouble finding an audience.

I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.

How many times had I let myself connect with someone only to have it thrown back in my face?

I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.

I wanted people to trust me, despite anything they'd heard. And more than that, I wanted them to know me. Not the stuff they thought they knew about me. No, the real me. I wanted them to get past the rumors. To see beyond the relationships I once had, or maybe still had but that they didn't agree with.

He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.

Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal to you Zach. But now, I hope you understand. My world was collapsing. I needed those notes. I needed any hope those notes might have offered. And you? You took that hope away. You decided I didn’t deserve to have it.