But in the end, fighting for a love that was already gone felt like trying to live in the ruins of a lost city.

All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.

Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.

Books could be an incredible adventure. I stayed under my blanket and barely moved, and no one would have guessed how my mind raced and my heart soared with stories.

... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.

I hope we'll get lucky enough to grow old together.

Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.