“Can’t promise I’ll stay. That would be lying. And I’m so, so tired of lies.”

“And I start to say that I’m not lying now, but I am, so that would be a lie.”

“M. That’s what I call her, this normal, nonexistent me. It’s not that I’ve never done those things, kissed or danced or just “hung out.” I have. But it was put-on, a character, a lie. I am so good at it—lying—but I can’t lie to myself. I can pretend to be M; I can wear her like a mask. But I can’t be her. I’ll never be her.”

“Lying here and looking up at the stars like this, it makes me feel like I’m lying on a planet. It’s so wide. So infinite -Belly Conklin”

“I’d never, ever do anything that would hurt you. That I promise. I’m so happy that we are together right now, I can’t even tell you.”

“It’s just, sometimes lies look so much like the truth. And when you can’t tell between the two, how do you know which one will make you happy? Maybe the lie will make you happier. And if you’re happier with the lie, would you really want to know the truth?”