If I love you more than you love me, I’m as good as dead. Yet I can’t make myself take it back. I can’t just walk away from you, because every time you pass by me without smiling, without touching my hand, or at least making eye contact, it feels like I’m dying inside.

In the end, it only comes down to one thing: choosing the one you can’t live without.

Hey." Tod squeezed my hand to draw me out of my thoughts. "I think death looks good on you.

Her mouth was open, as if she wanted to say something, and I wanted to kiss her to show her that sometimes you don't need words. Sometimes they only get in the way, and you end up talking yourself out of things you need. People you want.

What took you so long?” Nash asked, as he slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed. “I stopped to donate all your underwear to the homeless. You’re gonna wanna take care of those tighty whities—they’re all you’ve got left.” He leaned against the door, either too tired or too drunk to sit up. “And to think, most people don’t understand your sense of humor.” “Fools, all of them.

Great. "So not only am I not-human, but Death is my arch foe?" Who, me? Panic? "Anything else you want to tell me, while we're confessing?

I'm dead, not impotent. Nasty rumors like that must be squashed before they gain momentum. Feel free to emphasize how very functional I am.