Now, as we stand three feet apart and stare at each other, I feel the full distance that comes with spending so much time apart, a moment filled with the electricity of a first meeting and the uncertainty of strangers.

I'd once been fascinated by his legend - all the stories I'd heard before I met him. Now I can feel that same sense of fascination returning. I picture his face, so beautiful even after pain and torture and grief, his blue eyes bright and sincere. I'm ashamed to admit that I enjoyed my brief time with him in his prison cell. His voice can make me forget about all the details running through my mind, bringing with it emotions of desire, or fear instead, sometimes even anger, but always triggering something. Something that wasn't there before.

Without emotion, what's the point of being human?

I’ve been searching a long time for something I think I lost. I felt like I found something when I saw you back there.

For a small moment, I fix my eyes on his, telling him silently everything that I'll never say to him aloud.

Few people ever kill for the right reasons, June. Most do it for the wrong reasons. I just hope you never have to be in either category.

Boys are different from girls, but boys are also different from other boys, just as girls are different from other girls. Calling a book “for boys” or “for girls” is well-meaning, but to me, not terribly helpful.