“Clear.Cold.Empty.Like how I feelright now. Loveis strange. Oneminute you’rejungle fever.The nextyou’reArticwinter.”

“I love the way she feels inthe curve of my arm. I loveher unpretentious beauty,her intelligence, her nerve.But could I ever love her?The concept of falling in loveis completely foreign, somethingI can’t bring myself to accept. Her hair pillows my cheek and her hand on my leg is warm. I care about you, Conner, and I hate to see you hurting. I want to respond but can’tfind the pretty words I need.”

“LoveIs a curious thing. Sometimes it barrels into you, leaves you breathless. Other times, it comesin- to your life, a tentative beam of morning sun sneaking through the blinds, and you thinkthis light isn't possible. The shutters are drawn. Night should linger on. I don't feel like waking. Yet theroom comes slowly lit. Sleep slithers away, and at last you can no longer deny the dawning.”

“I'd like to cry now. Don't know how.”

“Love is strange. One minute you're jungle fever. The next you're Arctic winter.”

“I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.”

“The truth is, I don't have a real clue what love is - how to find it, how to give it. Once upon a time I thought I knew.”