The dead have a way of becoming saints in the eyes of their survivors.

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.

You don't know me. Don't ever think you know me. The only things you know about me are the things you made me do, and that illustrates your character, not mine.

You should be careful, tossing descriptors like that around in a situation like this. My ‘problem’ isn’t little. Unless you’re drawing some pretty wild comparisons. Please tell me you’re not drawing wild comparisons. Or blood-relative comparisons.

I couldn't see who swam in the darkness, who wore shadows like a second skin.

Regret couldn't fix what he's broken. Apologies couldn't bring back what he's lost. What we'd lost.

Because you don't belong with him! I tried to tell you that, but you wouldn't listen, and I thought if you understood that he'd be better off without you, you'd break up with him for his own good. So I...exaggerated how easy it'd be for him to get over you, with Sabine there to step in. But I underestimated how incredibly stubborn you are" "I prefer to think of it as dedication..." I mumbled.