I was a bit of a Victorian Lady, fainting-wise.

I kind of conned you into believing you were falling in love with a healthy person.

My thoughts are starts I can't fathom into constellations.

But that wasn't quite right. I called it a nine because I was saving my ten. And here it was, the great and terrible ten, slamming me again and again as I lay still and alone in my bed staring at the ceiling, the waves tossing me against the rocks then pulling me back out to sea so they could launch me again into the jagged face of the cliff, leaving me floating faceup on the water, undrowned.

I don't have a favourite book, I have hundreds.

Hazel Grace,” he said. “Hi,” I said. “How are you?” “Grand,” he said. “I have been wanting to call you on a nearly minutely basis, but I have been waiting until I could form a coherent thought in re An Imperial Affliction.” (He said “in re.” He really did. That boy.)

She taught me everything I knew about crawfish and kissing and pink wine and poetry. She made me different.