For a split second I felt as though she was nobody special in the larger scheme of my life. She was just some girl who had tied me to her leg to help her sink when she jumped off the bridge. Then I blinked and was in love with her again.

I definitely wanted much more normalness than what was around me.

I moved his hair out of his face. I put my hand under his nose and felt gentle, even breaths. I pressed my lips against his ear and whispered again, It’s not your fault. Perhaps this was really the only thing I had ever wanted to say to anyone, and be told.

I think because I write so many short stories, it's not that hard to come up with characters that are not me.

It occurred to me that everyone’s story matters to themselves, so the more I listened, the more she wanted to talk.

I can't imagine being invested in someone else's script.

I wish there were a class where we could just keep going around the circle. around and around, until we had finally said everything about ourselves.