You can't be real," Delilah murmurs. "Says who?" I ask. "Did you really think that a story exists only when you're reading it?

This is what I like about photographs. They're proof that once, even if just for a heartbeat, everything was perfect.

Any time you put on the mouthpiece of somebody that you're not, there's a professional responsibility to get it right. I did a great deal of research in both of those arenas.

Many people have a novel inside them, but most don't bother to get it out.

The process of growing up was nothing more than figuring out what doors hadn't yet been slammed in your face.

And if your parents have you for a reason, then that reason better exist. Because once it's gone, so are you.

But that's what love is, isn't it? When it hurts you more to see someone suffer than it does to take the pain away?