How is it I know this little about the boy who says he loves me -- the boy whose real name is powerful enough to keep us alive in a train car full of enemies?

I pout my lower lip for a second, but then I grin as the pieces come together in my mind. "THAT'S why you like me!" I exclaim. "Because you're not very nice either! It makes so much more sense now.

I feel myself acting like a lunatic, but I can't stop. It would be like refusing to breathe.

You're not very nice," I say, grinning. "You're one to talk." "Hey, I could be nice if I tried." "Hmm." He taps his chin. "Say something nice, then." "You're very good-looking." He smiles, his teeth a flash in this dark. "I like this 'nice' thing.

We share a common enemy, but does that make us friends?

You don’t always have to smack people in the face with how strong you are

In the days that follow, it's movement, not stillness, that helps to keep the grief at bay.