He kisses me again, more insistent this time, his hands squeezing my waist. His breaths, his body, my body, we are so close there is no difference.

I have realized that part of being Dauntless is being willing to make things more difficult for yourself in order to be self-sufficient.

Writing means not just staring ugliness in the face, but finding a way to embrace it.

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

But when I do feel all the strength go out of me, and I fall to my knees beside the table and I think I cry, then, or at least I want to, and everything inside me screams for just one more kiss, one more word, one more glance, one more.

His absence will haunt their hallways, and he will be a space they can't fill. And then time will pass, and the hole will be gone, like when an organ is removed and the body's fluids flow into the space it leaves. Humans can't tolerate emptiness for long.

All that land is filled with people, every one of them different, and the things they do to each other matter.