When I write a story, it's not like I'm thinking about what I'm doing

You are my life. You're the only thing it would hurt to lose.

I told you I didn't want to fight with Charlie." "Nobody said that you had to." I glowered at him. "I can't help myself when he gets all bossy like that―my natural teenage instincts overpower me.

You are safe inside your mind. No one can reach you there.

You still owe me a yellow Porsche.

How did people do this - swallow all their fears and trust someone else so implicitly with every imperfection and fear they had.

I struggled to find the words to name the feelings that flooded through me, but I had no words strong enough to hold them. For a long moment, I drowned in them. When I surfaced, I was not the same man I had been. My life was an unending, unchanging midnight. It must, by necessity, always be midnight for me. So how was it possible that the sun was rising now, in the middle of my midnight?