It's nice to have options even if you can't take them.

Each time, I think I'm never going to write another book. It never gets easier.

I thought again how you could never really know what you were seeing with just a glance, in motion, passing by. Good or bad, right or wrong. There was always so much more.

"I just don't know," I said, my voice sounding bumby, not like mine, "how do you help someone who doesn't want your help. What do you do when you can't do anything?"

How weird was it that so many bits and pieces, all diverse, could make something whole. Something with potential. 'Perfect.

Love is so unpredictable. That's what makes it so great.

But the original was there as well—more jaded and rudimentary, functional rather than romantic. It fit not just the yellow house but another door, deep within my own heart. One that had been locked so tight for so long that I was afraid to even try it for fear of what might be on the other side