All I can guess is that when I write, I forget that it's not real. I'm living the story, and I think people can read that sincerity about the characters. They are real to me while I'm writing them, and I think that makes them real to the readers as well.

Bella: How could I live with myself when it’s my fault? None of you should be risking yourselves for me – Jasper: Bella, Bella, stop. You’re worrying all the wrong things, Bella. Trust me on this – none of us are in jeopardy… Our family is strong. Our only fear is losing you. Bella: But why should you – Alice: It’s been almost a century that Edward’s been alone. Now he’s found you. You can’t see the changes that we see, we who have been with him for so long. Do you think any of us want to look into his eyes for the next hundred years if he loses you?

I could see how easy it would be to fall into loving Bella. It would be exactly like falling: effortless. Not letting myself love her was the opposite of falling—it was pulling myself up a cliff-face, hand over hand, the task as grueling as if I had no more than mortal strength.

The shadows didn't seem as dark as usual. Not with my personal sun along.

His gift is slower than Jane's. It creeps. It will touch us in a few seconds.

She looked around herself, disoriented, like she’d forgotten we were at lunch. Like she’d forgotten we were even at school-surprised that we were not alone in some private place. I understood that feeling exactly. It was hard to remember the rest of the world when I was with her.

I bit a pillow. Or two.