Writing a novel is like childbirth: once you realize how awful it really is, you never want to do it again.

If things don't work out the way you want, hold your head up high and be proud. And try again. And again. And again!

You asked me to go out with you. I know you probably changed your mind. But you should know, the answer was yes. It's always been yes when it comes to you.

If he'd been any other boy, and this was any other world, I would have kissed him. Nothing could have stopped me.

Like it takes so little not only to change something, but to make you forget the way it once was, as well.

Looking back, it seemed like it should have been harder to lose someone, or have them lose you, especially when they were in the same state, only a few towns over.

There comes a point when things are undeniable and can't be hidden any longer. Even from yourself.