Maybe you should say goodbye, Cal.' 'No.' 'It might be important.' 'It might make her die.

It's as if a child with a brush and too much enthusiasm has been set free with a tin of black paint inside me.

The last few weeks, it was as if someone had taken his life to pieces and let him see the way it worked.

We make patterns, we share moments. Sometimes, I think I'm the only one to see it.

I love you. I love you. I send this message through my fingers and into his, up his arm and into his heart. Hear me. I love you. And I'm sorry to leave you.

It's all right, Tessa, you can go. We love you. You can go now.' 'Why are you saying that?' 'She might need permission to die, Cal.' 'I don't want her to. She doesn't have my permission.

There's a terrible stillness. I notice a small tear in the wallpaper above her shoulder. I notice finger marks grimed on the light switch. Somewhere down in the house, a door opens and shuts. As Zoey turns to face me, I realize that life is made up of a series of moments, each one a journey to the end.