There is a fine line between seeing something that's lost as missing, and seeing it as something that might be found.

How can you be a survivor, when you can't even remember the war?

They don't like the thought of someone else making demands on the person whom they see as belonging entirely to them.

When you don't fit in, you become superhuman. You can feel everyone else's eyes on you, stuck like Velcro. You can hear a whisper about you from a mile away. You can disappear, even when it looks like you're still standing right there. You can scream, and nobody hears a sound. You become the mutant who fell into the vat of acid, the Joker who can't remove his mask, the bionic man who's missing all his limbs and none of his heart. You are the thing that used to be normal, but that was so long ago, you can't even remember what it was like.

Listen, I would say, this is not how I thought our lives would go; and may be we cannot find our way out of this alley. But there is no one I'd rather be lost with.

When I think about writers who use fiction as social commentary and to raise social awareness but who are also very popular, I think of Dickens.

If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?