He didn't give me flowers or candy. He gave me the moon and the stars. Infinity.

There hadn’t been one specific moment. It was like gradualy waking up. You go from being asleep to the space between dreaming and awake and then into consciousness. It’s a slow process, but when you’re awake, there’s no mistaking it. There was no mistaking that it had been love.

In the dark you can feel really close to a person. You can say whatever you want.

It feels strange to have spent much time wishing for something, for someone and then one day, suddenly, to just stop.

There's no use in asking what if. No one could ever give you the answers.

Maybe that was how it was with all first loves. They own a little piece of your heart, always.

Aching familiar in a way that made me wish I was still eight. Eight was before death or divorce or heartbreak. Eight was just eight. Hot dogs and peanut butter, mosquito bites and splinters, bikes and boogie boards. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Judy Blume, in bed by nine thirty.