Sever

I miss something I never even had.

We figure out what death means when we're born, practically, and we live our whole lives in some kind of weird denial about it.

Set fire to the broken pieces; start anew.

I never wanted to live forever," she says. "I just wanted enough time.

We destroy things with our curiosity. We shatter with our best intentions

There’s a limit to how much living can be done in a life without freedom.

I think she's brave. I think that nobody has ever believed what she could be capable of. All her life, nobody was listening.

We are stronger than we've credited ourselves to be. We have been the victims and the witnesses. We have said a lifetime of good-byes.

Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.

I liked just being with you. I liked the way you breathed when you were asleep. I liked when you took the champagne glass from my hand. I liked how your fingers were always too long for your gloves.

We can change so many times in our lives. We're born into a family, and it's the only life we can imagine, but it changes. Buildings collapse. Fires burn. And the next second we're someplace else entirely, going through different motions and trying to keep up with this new person we've become.

I don't know if it was love or an illusion. I don't know if there's ever a way to be certain.

She's been conned, ruined, left for dead, and she's not going to forgive any of it. She will soldier on, if only out of spite.

Sometimes we don't know how afraid we are until we've reached a strange door and we don't know what will be on the other side.

There's a world out there that nobody has bothered to promise her.

You have a way of looking at things. You make it seem as though everything's going to be okay. I can't imagine a more dangerous thing to have than hope like yours.

Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.

It’s a world worth fighting for. Set fire to the broken pieces; start anew.

He looks at me, and I don't know what he sees. I used to think it was Rose. But she's not here with us now, in this room. It's just him and me, and the books. I feel like our lives are in those books. I feel like all the words on the pages are for us.

It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.

It isn’t a perfect place. There are no perfect places. But nobody cares about perfection when there are sand castles to build and kites to chase, children that are being born, old hearts that are giving in.

I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.

It's quiet for a while, and then Rowan says; "We could talk now. We're alone out here. No walls." "There are always walls." I say.

She’s a commodity in a sea of broken girls.

He says one word, nodding into the daylight. "Look." It's an astounding word. It's a gift.

Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.