What does it feel like?” he asked. “What does what feel like?” Peter thought for a moment. “Being at the top.” Josie reached across him for another packet of material and fed it into the stapler. She did three of these, and Peter was certain that she was going to ignore him, but then she spoke. “Like if you take one wrong step,” she said, “you’re going to fall.

Here I am, wasting away inside a book I wish I could escape, and all she wants to do is stay in the story. If I could talk to this girl Delilah, I’d ask her why on earth she would ever trade a single second of the world she’s in for the one in which I’m stuck

Memory is like plaster: peel it back and you just might find a completely different picture.

There were some people who hit your life so hard, they left a stain on your future.

Memories aren't stored in the heart or the head or even the soul, if you ask me, but in the spaces between any given two people.

Is it because they are so comfortable, they already know what the other is thinking? Or is it because after a certain point, there is simply nothing left to say?

My brother believed in all sorts of mythical creatures: pixies, dragons, werewolves, honest men.