I would tell them that when you look at a person, you never know what the're hiding.

How many times would I throw this away before I realized it was what I had been looking for all along?

It turns out that sharing the past with someone is different from reliving it when you’re alone. It feels less like a wound, more like a poultice.

I don't want to make the same mistake twice. I don't want to tell myself it's over when it's not.

Where did you go?" "To the end of the driveway," my mother says. "I was nine months pregnant; that was the maximum distance I could waddle without feeling as if my uterus was falling out." I wince. "Do you have to be quite so graphic?" "What would you like me to call it, Zoe? A fetal living room?

But there is a different between mending someone who's broken and finding someone who makes you complete.

You could only save someone that wanted to be saved; otherwise, you'd be be dragged down for the count, too.