Every life has a soundtrack.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be this person anymore. I don’t want to pretend I’m fooling the world when I’m not. I want someone else to have a plan for me, because I’m not doing a very good job myself.
I wish I could tell him I understand: the higher you raise your hopes, the farther you have to fall.
He is dark and quiet and completely different from me, which is exactly why I should put distance between us. But it is also the reason I find him so fascinating.
As anyone who’s ever contracted it knows, lies are an infectious disease. They slip under the almond slivers of your fingernails and into your bloodstream.
And in general, the residents of the town wondered why they all felt hollow just beneath the throat, the result of missing something they had never been able to name in the first place.
Losing Chloe had been like reading a wonderfulook only to realize that all the pages past a certain point were blank.
Safety is relative. You can be so close to shore that you can practically feel it under your feet, when you suddenly find yourself breaking apart on the rocks.
You can be strapped to the most stable chair and still feel the world give way beneath you.
When you don’t know where you’re headed, you find places no one else would ever explore.
I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. I don’t want to tell myself it’s over when it’s not.
It was the first time she’d discovered something she really didn’t want to find, and she didn’t know what to do once she’d found it.
When your mother is made out of your dreams, anything real is bound to disappoint you.
Eric understands that the world is rarelythe way it is supposed to be. And he knows that, given the chance, we don’t have to wait for someone to make messes of our lives. We do a good enough job, ourselves.
Sometimes we don’t know we’re dreaming; we can’t even fathom that we’re asleep.
How do you walk into someone’s life again after twenty-eight years? How do you pick up, when you were too young to know where you left off.
In half hour my mother has managed to give me what my father couldn’t: my past.
Memories aren’t stored in the heart or the head or even the soul, if you ask me, but in the spaces between any given two people.
If you want to know someone’s story, they have to tell it aloud. But every time, the telling is a little but different. It’s new, even to me.
When you’re a parent you find yourself looking at the unknown that is your child, trying to find a piece of yourself inside her, because sometimes that is what it takes to claim.