There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.

And then I wonder, does my brother think of me this way? We entered this world together, one after the other, beats in a pulse. But I will be first to leave it. That's what I've been promised. When we were children, did he dare to imagine an empty space beside him where I then stood giggling, blowing soap bubbles through my fingers? When I die, will he be sorry that he loved me? Sorry that we were twins? Maybe he already is.

She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.

The sullen boy sitting before me is not my husband, and the girl he is fretting over isn't me, will never be me.

It doesn't matter how much his mother loves him; love is not enough to keep any of us alive.

I think he's beginning to understand, and understanding is a horrible thing.

It's best to let her go," he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.