Why do people want to pretend that death is sleep? It isn't. It isn't.

Why are you constantly escorting me places?” I say. “Isn’t there a depraved activity you’re supposed to be taking part in? Kicking puppies or spying on girls while they change, or something?

Don't you dare try to apologize." His voice shakes. "This is not something you can bandage with a word or two and some hugging, or something.

I'll have to keep looking for more of them, more brief moments of freedom in a world that refuses to allow it.

I decide to do what I always do when I'm not sure what's going on: I act like everyone else.

What good is a prepared body if you have a scattered mind?

Scrubbing the floor when no one else wanted to was something that my mother would have done. If I can't be with her, the least I can do is act like her sometimes.