I’m sad. I’m crying. I used to cry a lot when I was little. If I stepped on a bug I’d burst into tears. Funny thing — I was so busy crying for everything else, I never cried for myself. Now I cry for me. For you. For us.

You’ll know her more by your questions than by her answers. Keep looking at her long enough. One day you might see someone you know.

He asked me when I planned to come back. Always, I said.



Things that matter are not easy. Feelings of happiness are easy. Happiness is not. Flirting is easy. Love is not. Saying you’re friends is easy. Being friends is not.

Those who escape hell never talk about it, and nothing much bothers them after that.

You don’t remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.

You never really know people, even those you love.

Just because I don’t care doesn’t mean I don’t understand.

A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.

One of the cruelest things you can do to another person is pretend you care about them more than you really do.

You go on.You set one foot in front of the other, and if a thin voice cries out, somewhere behind you, you pretend not to hear, and keep going.

Not everyone has a sob story.
And even if they do, it’s no excuse.

It’s weird how important it seemed at the time.

That was one of the virtues of being a pessimist: nothing was ever as bad as you thought it would be.

“Love will destroy more than it can fix.”