They told us love was a disease. They told us it would kill us in the end. For the very first time I realize, that this, too, might also be a lie.

And there it is: Even though we’re standing in the same patch of sun-drenched pavement, we might as well be a hundred thousand miles apart.

people do terrible things, sometimes, for the best reasons.

For a second, I feel a sense of overwhelming grief: for how things change, for the fact that we can never go back. I'm not certain of anything anymore. I don't know what will happen--

I reach out and grab her wrist. It feels impossibly tiny in my hand, like this one time I found a baby bird near goose Point, and I picked it up and it died there, taking its final gasping fluttering breaths in my palm.

Is this freedom? Is it happiness? I don't know. I don't care anymore. It is different--it is being alive.

The memories seem like snapshots from someone else’s life.