It smelled like aging wood and creosote, plastic book covers, and old paper. Old paper, which my mom used to say was the smell of time itself.

Writing a book is hard. It turns out, writing a second book is twice as hard.

Maybe it needed to be broken. Sometimes things have to break before you can fix them.

There are no coincidences.

I smiled at her, but she was already lost in thought, looking around the library as if it held all the answers to all our problems.

Kind of like love before first sight.” and “Butterflies in your stomach. That was such a crappy metaphor. More like killer bees.

I'd ridden to school with Link every day since kindergarten, when we became best friends after he gave me half his Twinkie on the bus. I only found out later it had fallen on the floor.