But the explanations fell apart in her hands. Everything true was too hard to write--he was too much to lose. Everything she felt for him was too hot to touch.

You act like getting pregnant is a disease you can catch from public toilets.

People tend to pair off that way, Cath thought, in matched sets.

You win when no one finds you, even if they're not looking.

Holding Eleanor's hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive.

If you can't save your own life, is it even worth saving?

That's the ultimate kind of broken. The kind of damage you never recover from.