“Another silence for the record books. Then he sighs."I know. It's crazy. I feel like --" He stops himself. He suddenly looks so miserable that my heart aches for him.I hate my life.”

“I hate feeling so weak and vulnerable.I hate that I miss him.I hate that I am alone, and I always was.I hate that I made him into a superhero, he was not.I hate that he doesn't want to kiss me.I hate that every time I cry over one boy it's like crying over all of them again.”

“But he was here. In my bed. His body warm and hard and feeling so much like home that I ached.”

“[When] he's here, he's always reading. He says books stop time. I myself think he's crazy...Don't tell anyone, but when he reads something that he likes he gets real happy, turns on the music, and dances by himself, or with a broom sometimes.”

“A writer must be hard to live with: when not working he is miserable, and when he is working he is obsessed. Or so it is with me. Thus my writing life consists of spells of languor alternating with fits and spasms of mad typing. At all times, though, I keep a journal, a record book, and most everything begins in the form of notes scribbled down on the pages of that journal.”

“My stomach sank. “I don’t want you to be miserable.”“Then don’t go,” he said. His expression was so desperate that the guilt formed a lump in my throat.“I can’t move in here, Travis. That’s crazy.”“Says who? I just had the best two weeks of my life.”“Me, too.”“Then why do I feel like I’m never gonna see you again?”