He touches my face, covering my cheeks with his hands, sliding his fingertips down my neck, fitting his fingers to the slight curve of my hips. I can't stop.

I ignore my fear,” he says. “When I make decisions, I pretend it doesn’t exist.” I stare at him for a second. I can’t help it. To me there’s a difference between not being afraid and acting in spite of fear, as he does.

How have I never realized before that for all the strong, kind parts of him, there are also hurting, broken parts?

People, I have discovered, are layers and layers of secrets. You believe you know them, that you understand them, but their motives are always hidden from you, buried in their own hearts. You will never know them, but sometimes you decide to trust them.

Noise and activity are the refuges of the bereaved and the guilty.

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

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