You might not write well every day, but you can always edit a bad page. You can't edit a blank page.

[Jules] slides into a seat beside me with her hot lunch tray, sighing. “Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds till we’re out of purgatory for the weekend.” “Maybe later,” I murmur, still distracted by the day’s previous events. “So, let me show you how a conversation works. I say something, and then you say something back that actually relates to what I was talking about, as if you were even the least bit interested.” “Huh?” I say.

The best way to prevent a heartache was to cushion the coming blow.

I don't want to make the same mistake twice. I don't want to tell myself it's over when it's not.

The thing that most people didn't understand, if they weren't in his line if work, was that a rape victim and a victim of a fatal accident were both gone forever. The difference was that the rape victim still had to go through the motions of being alive.

He gently touched his mother's cheek, felt her sorrow slip over his fingertips.

But that's what love is, isn't it? When it hurts you more to see someone suffer than it does to take the pain away?