Then they scrambled through the window and into the darkness, determined to turn themselves into what they were not.

She stares at me for a moment, and then she bursts out laughing. “You haven’t seen his perfect little wife and his perfect little girls. Believe me, Oliver, I’m not the great love of his life, the one he’ll never forget.” “You are to me,” I say.

By definition, love made you better than good enough; it redefined perfection to include your traits, instead of excluding them.

Where you come from does matter -- but not nearly as much as where you are headed.

You have to understand what you’re missing before you can really feel a loss.

and he suddenly knew that if she killed herself, he would die. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it would happen. You couldn't live for very long without a heart.

There were some people who hit your life so hard, they left a stain on your future.