You don't love someone because they're perfect," she says. "You love them in spite of the fact that they're not." I don't know how to respond to that; it's like being told after thirty-five years that the sky, which I've seen as a brilliant blue, is in fact rather green.

After all, once you know that part of something exists, it stands to reason that the rest of it is somewhere out there, too.

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

Life was what happened when all the what-if’s didn’t, when what you dreamed or hoped or – in this case – feared might come to pass passed by instead.

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

It was the first time she'd discovered something she really didn't want to find, and she didn't know what to do once she'd found it.

The person may have a scar, but it also means they have a story