Who is he when he isn't Dauntless, isn't an instructor, isn't Four, isn't anything in particular? Whoever he is, I like him. It's easier to admit that to myself now, in the dark, after all that just happened. He is not sweet or gentle or particularly kind. But he is smart and brave, and even though he saved me, he treated me like I was strong. That is all I need to know.

Sometimes, the best way to help someone is just to be near them.

I started writing because I decided I was too old to play pretend in the backyard. Then I found that I could create those imaginary worlds on the page.

I laugh shakily. ‘You’re a little scary, Four.’ ‘Do me a favor,’ he says, ‘and don’t call me that.’ ‘What should I call you, then?’ ‘Nothing.’ He takes his hand from my face. ‘Yet.

Then I realize what it is. It's him. Something about him makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames.

If I let a little of the emotion out, all of it will come out, and it will never end.

It happened. It was awful. You aren't perfect. That's all there is. Don't confuse your grief with guilt.