It took me a sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mints and forty minutes to get over that boy.

The preciousness of the moment, which should make it easier to talk, makes it harder.

You know your problem, Quentin? You keep expecting people not to be themselves.

We were just looking at ideas of each other.

She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.

There were so many of us who would have to live with things done and things left undone that day. Things that did not go right, things that seemed okay at the time because we could not see the future. If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can't know better until knowing better is useless.

That was the worst part about having cancer, sometimes: The physical evidence of disease separates you from other people.