It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.

I’ve been trying so hard not to think his name, not to even breathe the idea of him

If you’re smart, you care. And if you care, you love.

The secret is,” I say, whispering right into his ear, “that yours was the best kiss I’ve ever had in my life.” “But I’ve never kissed you,” he whispers back. Around us the rain sounds like falling glass. “Not since third grade, anyway.” I smile, but I’m not sure if he can see it. “Better get started, then,” I say, “because I don’t have much time.

I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.

Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.

The worst is knowing I can't tell anybody what's happening -or what's happened- to me. Not even my mom.