They ask, how could this happen here? Well. How could it not happen here?

There is no cosmic scale on which you can weigh your actions; you learn too late what choices ruin the fragile balance.

If you end your story, it's a static work of art, a finite circle. But if you don't, it belongs to anyone's imagination. It stays alive forever.

When she wanted to escape her life, she read books

I adore the way he looks at me sometimes, as if love is a quantity he cannot measure scientifically, because it multiplies too quickly.

Why is it that only in the very beginnings of a relationship are you aware of the heat coming from inside a person, of the number of inches you would have to move for your shoulders to brush as if it were an accident?

When the door opens, I realize that the only thing worse than waiting is the moment you realize a decision has been made.