there was not much distinction between losing a friend and a lover: it was all about intimacy. One moment, you had someone to share your biggest triumph, and fatal flaws with; the next minute, you had to keep them bottled inside.

You want to write something as good as what you've read.

The wolves knew when it was time to stop looking for what they'd lost, to focus instead on what was yet to come.

You can't hate someone until you know what it might be like to love them.

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

Mistakes are like the memories you hide in an attic: old love letters from relationships that tanked, photos of dead relatives, toys from a childhood you miss. Out of sight is out of mind, but somewhere deep inside you know they still exist. And you also know that you're avoiding them.

The saddest day in the world will be the one when she stops pretending.