Sometimes I feel like there is so much to be afraid of, and sometimes I feel like there is nothing left to fear.

That night we push our cots just a little closer together, and look into each other's eyes in the moments before we fall asleep. When he finally drifts off, our fingers are twisted together in the space between the beds. I smile a little, and let myself go.

You’re too important to just … die.” He shakes his head. He won’t even look at me—his eyes keep shifting across my face, to the wall behind me or the ceiling above me, to everything but me. I am too stunned to be angry. “I’m not important. Everyone will do just fine without me,” I say. “Who cares about everyone? What about me?

Being honest doesn't mean you say whatever you want, wherever you want. It means that what you choose to say is true.

Just as I have insisted on his worth, he has always insisted on my strength, insisted that my capacity is greater than I believe. And I know, without being told, that's what love does, when it's right-it makes you more than you were, more than you thought you could be. This is right.

I understand why she did all those things, but that doesn't mean we aren't still broken.

I have to face the fear. I have to take control of the situation and find a way to make it less frightening.