I'm too much of a coward to kill myself. And too much of a coward to live

Life could take on any number of shapes while you were busy fighting your own demons. But if you were changing at the same rate as the person beside you, nothing else really mattered. You became each other's constant.

The act of reading is a partnership. The author builds a house, but the reader makes it a home.

Envy, after all, comes from wanting something that isn't yours. But grief comes from losing something you've already had.

I think people do things all the time in the name of love that they shouldn't be doing - such is the nature of us.

Grief is a curious thing, when it happens unexpectedly. It is a Band-Aid being ripped away, taking the top layer off a family. And the underbelly of a household is never pretty, ours no exception. There were times I stayed in my room for days on end with headphones on, if only so that I would not have to listen to my mother cry. There were the weeks that my father worked round-the-clock shifts, so that he wouldn't have to come home to a house that felt too big for us.

Memory is like plaster: peel it back and you just might find a completely different picture.