It is good to be busy. Being busy takes our mind off being in love at the wrong time, in the wrong place and with the wrong guy.

Because love was not the answer to every question. Because real love meant sacrifice. Sometimes love means letting go.

It was maddening how your best friend could twist the knobs inside of you so much that it hurt.

Black is the color of night. White is the true color of death

When she reached the shallow end, Kingsley held out his hand and pulled her up, but she lost her step and fell into his arms, her body crushing momentarily against his.

Memories were moving pictures in which meaning was constantly in flux. They were stories people told themselves.

If she loved him the way she said she did, she wanted him whole. Maybe this was what love meant after all: sacrifice and selflessness. It did not mean hearts and flowers and a happy ending, but the knowledge that another's well-being is more important than one's own.