You never know when the truth will come home. You can't choose the time. The time chooses you.

His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield.

Perhaps that is our doom, our human curse, to never really know one another.

After another half second, he's locked me in a bear hug, crushing me into his chest and lifting my feet a couple inches off the ground as I kick furiously with my heels, twisting my head back and forth, snapping at his forearm with my teeth. And the whole time his lips tickling the delicate skin of my ear. "Cassie. Don't. Cassie..." "Let...me...go." "That's been the whole problem. I can't.

We’re here, and then we’re gone, and it’s not about the time we’re here, but what we do with the time.

But if I'm it, the last of my kind, the last page of human history, like hell I'm going to let the story end this way. I may be the last one, but I am the one still standing. I am the one turning to face the faceless hunter in the woods on an abandoned highway. I am the one not running but facing. Because if I am the last one, then I am humanity. And if this is humanity's last war, then I am the battlefield.

There was, like, this black hole where the world used to be, and we were both falling toward it. What could we hold on to?