There was a difference between people looking at you because they wanted to be like you, and people looking at you because your misfortune brought them one rung higher.

Parents aren’t the people you come from. They’re the people you want to be, when you grow up.

How could you not want to draw breath one more day? How could your own life be such a cheap commodity? But then I started to understand: when your existence is hell, death must be heaven.

When heaven breaks, who fixes it?

I close my eyes, thinking that there is nothing like an embrace after an absence, nothing like fitting my face into the curve of his shoulder and filling my lungs with the scent of him.

And the very act of living is a tide; at first it seems to make no difference at all, and then one day you look down and see how much pain has eroded

Jacob's room is the place entropy goes to die.