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.

When you think you're right, you're most likely wrong.

Energy can't be destroyed, only converted into something different. So when a person dies, where does that energy go?

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

Just because it's fiction doesn't mean it's any less true.

What if it turns out that a life isn’t defined by who you belong to or where you came from, by what you wished for or whom you’ve lost, but instead by the moments you spend getting from each of these places to the next?

Scars are just a treasure map for pain you've buried too deep to remember.