I know I shouldn't say this—I know it as surely as I know the earth is round and beats are evil—and yet here it comes: “It's not too late to change your mind.

He felt it too, the air between us, the invisible lines that something or someone had drawn to connect us. That's the way I remember it.

Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete.

Sometimes you should have something you don't need but that you want.

I never had a connection like that to anyone, where every day you think about what you’ll tell them and you wonder what they’re doing, and you know they’re wondering what you’re doing.

. . .There are certain people who come into your life, and leave a mark. . . Their place in your heart is tender; a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business. Just hearing their names pushes and pulls at you in a hundred ways, and when you try to define those hundred ways, describe them even to yourself, words are useless.

No one measures a life in weeks and days. You measure life in years and by the things that happen to you.