I suppose everything is bound to look different when you aren't on your way to die.

My Tris should look pale and small--she is pale and small, after all--but instead the room is full of her.

Be brave, Beatrice. I love you.

i happen to enjoy categorization.

We may both be bad, but there’s a huge difference between us—I’m not content with being this way.

I feel the urge, familiar now, to wrench myself from my body and speak directly into her mind. It is the same urge, I realize, that makes me want to kiss her every time I see her, because even a sliver of distance between us is infuriating. Our fingers, loosely woven a moment ago, now clutch together, her palm tacky with moisture, mine rough in places where I have grabbed too many handles on too many moving trains. Now she looks pale and small, but her eyes make me think of wide-open skies that I have never actually seen, only dreamed of.

You know I'm getting a little tired of waiting for you to catch on.