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.

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.

Firsts are best because they are beginnings

Moments, when lost, can't be found again. They're just gone.

Things couldn't stay the same forever.

You can't put being in love on a scale. Either you are or you aren't.

You'd rather make up a fantasy version of somebody in your head than be with a real person.