I wondered which was harder, in the end. The act of telling, or who you told it to. Or maybe if, when you finally got it out, the story was really all that mattered.

We didn't talk about our scars, the ones you could see and the ones you couldn't.

There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.

for once, you believed in yourself. you believed you were beautiful and so did the rest of the world.

I'd been running for years: there was nothing scarier, to me, than to just be still with someone. And yet, there on that dark road, going home, I was.

We can all be beautiful girls.

If you could just be nice, then you wouldn't have to worry about arguments at all. but being nice wasn't as easy as it seemed, especially when the rest of the world could be so mean.