I didn't know love could leave the lights on all the time.

Cath wished she didn't use the word "just" so much. It was her passive-aggressive tell, like someone who twitched when they were lying.

You're wearing at least four different kinds of sweater." "This is a scarf." "You look tarred and sweatered.

Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

It felt good to be writing in her own room, in her own bed. To get lost in the World of Mages and stay lost. To not hear any voices in her head but Simon's and Baz's. Not even her own. This was why Cath wrote fic. For these hours when their world supplanted the real world.

I'd rather pour myself into a world I love and understand than try to make something up out of nothing.

You look so blindingly cute right now, I feel like I need to make a pinhole in a piece of paper just to look at you.