I couldn't believe Sam actually got me a present because i honestly thought the "I love you" was it.

I would give someone a record so they could love the record, not so they would always know that I gave it to them.

Sam has brown hair and very, very pretty green eyes. The kind of green that doesn't make a big deal about itself.

So, I looked up, and we were in this giant dome like a glass snowball, and Mark said that the amazing white stars were really only holes in the black glass of the dome, and when you went to heaven, the glass broke away, and there was nothing but a whole sheet of star white, which is brighter than anything but doesn't hurt your eyes. It was vast and open and thinly quiet, and I felt so small.

He was the boy that made mix tapes with themes and hand-colored covers until the day he hit my sister and stopped crying.

on that piece of white paper, sam wrote, "write about me sometime." and i typed something back to her, standing right there in her bedroom. i just typed. "i will.

So what's the point of using words nobody else knows or can say comfortably? I just don't understand that.