What you didn't tell someone was just as debilitating as what you did.

Words got in the way. The things we felt the hardest--like what it was like to have a boy touch you as if you were made of light, or what it meant to be the only person in the room who wasn't noticed--weren't sentences; they were knots in the wood of our bodies, places where our blood flowed backward. If you asked me, not that anyone ever did, the only words worth saying were I'm sorry.

But you could only remake your own future, not anyone else's, and for some people that just wasn't good enough.

If history has a habit of repeating itself, doesn't someone have to stay behind to shout out a warning?

I thought lightning wasn't supposed to strike in the same place twice....sure it does...but only if you're too dumb to move.

And I think, not for the first time, that what is immoral is not always wrong.

But still, it looked completely natural, as if we had been kissing at the ends of sentences for ages, while the rest of the world was still hung up on punctuation.