True love, it's like an illness. I never understood it before. In books and plays. Poems. I never understood what drove otherwise intelligent, right-thinking people to do such extravagant, irrational things. Now I do. It's an illness. You can catch it when you least expect. There's no known cure. And sometimes, in its most extreme, it's fatal.

We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine.

Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.

Lil had always believed that a person's duty was to make the best of the hand they were dealt. No use wondering what might have been, she used to say, all that matters is what is.

A way of looking at you that told you she was listening, that she understood all you were saying, and all you weren't.

She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.

For it is said, you know, that a letter will always seek a reader; that sooner or later, like it or not, words have a way of finding the light, of making their secrets known.