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

You never know the last time you’ll see a place. A person.

It's the imperfections that make things beautiful.

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.

I loved the feeling of talking and having somebody really listen to what I have to say. It was like a high or something.

I think I see the difference now, between loving someone from afar and loving someone up close. When you see them up close, you see the real them, but they also get to see the real you.

It’s hard to throw away history. It was like you were throwing away a part of yourself.