Odd as this might sound, I suppose I’m glad you’re here, Jacob. [Edward Cullen]
It's not what you are. It's what you do.
For some reason, my temper was hardwired to my tear ducts. I usually cried when I was angry, a humiliating tendency.
Your hair looks like a haystack...but I like it.
The smile broke across his face the way the sunrise set the clouds on fire.
How did anyone survive this world, with these bodies whose memories wouldn't stay in the past where they should? With the emotions that were so strond I couldn't tell what I felt anymore?