Two weeks until your cure" she says finally. "Sixteen days" I say, but in my head I'm counting: Seven days. Seven days until I'm free and away from all these people and their sliding superficial lives brushing past one another gliding, gliding, gliding from life to death. For them there's hardly a change between the two.

Everything I see and touch reminds me of him, and so everything I see and touch is perfect.

Nothing exists but him.

That's the easy thing about falling: there is only one choice after that.

I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.

There's always some relief in giving up.

It's an incredible thing, how you can feel so taken care of by someone and yet feel, also, like you would die or do anything just for the chance to protect him back.