Torture is not torture when there’s any hope of relief.

I spent my life folded between the pages of books. In the absence of human relationships I formed bonds with paper characters.

His hands are holding my cheeks, and he pulls back just to look me in the eye and his chest is heaving and he says, "I think," he says, "my heart is going to explode," and I wish, more than ever, that I knew how to capture moments like these and revisit them forever. Because this. This is everything.

I love walking into a bookstore. It's like all my friends are sitting on shelves, waving their pages at me.

Hope. It's like a drop of honey, a field of tulips blooming in the springtime. It's a fresh rain, a whispered promise, a cloudless sky, the perfect punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. And it's the only thing in the world keeping me afloat.

I feel like I've been split open and stuffed with sunshine.

A handful of letters doesn't always make a word, love.