That’s what made it so frightening to the lawmakers: Love obeys no laws other than its own.

He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.

My heart shoots into my throat every time I think I see his loping walk, or catch sight of some floppy brown hair on a boy - but it's never him, and each time it isn't, my heart does a reverse trajectory down into the very pit of my stomach.

No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.

Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.

I'm used to a feeling of doubleness, of thinking one thing and having to do another, a constant tug-of-war.

The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.