To be truly popular, it has to look like something you are, when in reality, it's what you make yourself.

When this is over...we will got to the rainforest, or a beach as white as bone. We will eat grapes from the vine, we will swim with sea turtles, we will walk miles on cobblestone streets. We will laugh and talk and confess. We will.

Was there a language of loss? Did everyone who suffered speak a different dialect?

After a certain point, a heart with so many stress fractures can never be anything but broken.

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

Love was that way. You could not render it in black or white. It always came down to the strange, blended shades of grey.

Sometimes it made her want to put her fist through glass; other times, it made her cry a river.