If Only I Had Told Her

She's made of the stories she has read.

My devotion to Autumn is engraved on my very being. I am in awe of her. I will sit in the stands and cheer her on in life as her most ardent admirer. I know I will always love her in the same way I know I'll always need oxygen.

If only I’d told her that I loved her years ago, I wouldn’t be here now.

it matters which people you spend time with, and it matters how you spend your time, because you don’t know how much you have.

It's all done. Finn's story is over. His whole life. That was it. Not even nineteen years, and he'll never, ever do anything else ever again. Finn won't go off to college or celebrate his birthday. He won't get another haircut or get the oil changed in his car. He won't bite a hangnail on his thumb or buy another CD. Finn Smith has done everything he will ever get to do. He won't get to be with Autumn.

I know I will always love her in the same way I know I'll always need oxygen.

I'll love her even if she turns out to be cruel. That's my curse.

This baby isn't what's left over from our love story. This baby is our story's continuation.

We’re just being close one last time.

We are all dead bodies that haven’t died yet.

Like, fairy-tale love? Cartoon character with hearts floating all around him? Or a movie montage with the best song? That's what you were to him. You were the biggest, most impossible dream for him.

Oh, Autumn.” My friend. My dream. My love.

Books are Autumn’s real life. She is made of the stories she has read.

If I had known. If I had only known. Things would have been different. That place still hurts. That place can't forgive.

My love for her is vehement, protracted, and interminable.

My love for her is the closest thing I have to religion. But it’s okay that she doesn’t feel the same. I’m fine. I can handle it.

There’re always things that we could have done differently. What matters is what we do now.

I'll go by the graveyard later and make sure he's settled in.

When you’re reading a book and you can’t focus, ask yourself, ‘How much is the writer’s fault, and how much is mine?’ Be honest. That’s how you’ll know if you should set it aside forever or for a few hours.

I’ve seen her finish a novel, pause staring off into space for a minute like she’s receiving instructions, and then open another book. It’s as if her job is to read and she’s behind on her quota.

Whatever our souls are made of, hers and mine are the same.

I've been thinking about Finn, and for the first time since Alexis's call that morning, it doesn't hurt. I'm so, so grateful that Finn was once alive and that I got to love him. That he got to love and be loved. And be loved still.

The reality is, what you imagined will never happen, and what you remembered is already done

I have to do it. It’s the last thing I’ll get to do for my friend ever again.

Time travel isn’t real, so it’s not a problem to solve.

The only way out is through.

But life is like that sometimes, and that’s a good thing.

All my agonies had been caused by figments of my imagination.

Whenever you and Finn Smith would see each other, at school or the mall or whatever, you guys would freeze for a split second. And then you would be moving and talking again, but it was like part of you was still frozen, waiting for the other person to do something.

With a plan in place, I climb out of the car and run across the rain-soaked pavement to her. I fall to my knees in front of Sylvie, putting my hand to the ground. It’s wet—