It was possible that a miracle was not something that happened to you, but rather something that didn’t.

All any of us wanted, really, was to know that we counted. That someone else's life would not have been as rich without us here.

Maybe if you spend your life pretending you're on a movie set, you don't ever have to admit that the walls are made out of paper and the food is plastic and the words in your mouth aren't really yours.

If you were drifting with a thousand other people, could you really still say you were lost?

Your hand fits mine like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle

Once you call something a story, it's set in stone. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end that can't be transformed, because by definition, if you do that, it's not the same story anymore

If it is possible to die of grief then why on earth can't someone be healed by happiness?