We only really remember things for five years. After that, what we remember, what's actually etched in our brain is our memory of the thing, not the thing itself. And five years after that, what's left is our memory of the memory.

This wasn't because he liked me, I was sure. It had more to do with him banking on what we of wedding age had all become witnesses to-how during these wedding weekends, single women, feeling a little lonely, maybe, or just feeling a little too far from being the bride, found themselves loosening their own rules, opting to be more flexible, more quickly.

Why does it take fear to move you? Why does it take chaos to make us understand exactly what we need to do?

Sometimes you don't know it. What you have been waiting your whole life for. You don't know until it is happening.

We have to figure out how to let go, and forgive. This is our job.

We loved each other in the same difficult, unusable way where you took turns doing it, instead of ever managing to do it at the same time.

Why could we say more to each other when it counted less?