Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.

Things always seem to glide away. They come to you, stay a moment, then leave again.

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the start that you're going to win it.

I think to be writer you have to enjoy being alone. I was a loner as a teenager and was always drawn to characters in books and films who were at the fringes.