The act of reading is a partnership. The author builds a house, but the reader makes it a home.

There was no easy switch that she could flip to stem the flow of feelings, no way to drain the memories that pooled like acid in her stomach because her heart no longer knew what to do with them.

But there’s a part of me that wonders what it would be like to be the most important person to someone else, to always feel like you were missing a piece of yourself when he wasn’t near you.

You can’t keep yourself from falling in love, but you can steer yourself away from the wrong people.

As for his name, well, what attorney wouldn't want to be able put a Judge in a crate every now and then?

If history has a habit of repeating itself, doesn't someone have to stay behind to shout out a warning?

You can't exist in this world without leaving a piece of yourself behind.