“I love you. I hope you can get used to me saying that. A lot.”

“I want to tell you exactly how I feel but there isn’t a single goddamned word in the entire dictionary that can describe this point between liking you and loving you, but I need that word. I need it because I need you to hear me say it.”“Live. If you mix the letters up in the words like and love, you get live. You can use that word.”“I live you, Sky,” he says against my lips. “I live you so much.”

“Did you know,” he said, his breath warm on my cheek, “that that is the first time anyone has ever told me they loved me?” Startled, I did the only thing I could think of—I kissed him again. “You’d better get used to hearing it more often, because I plan on saying it to you an awful lot.”

“I want to say we're okay, Bliss. I need you, too. But I can't pretend I wasn't hoping this would go somewhere. I don't know if I can do it. The truth is... you are hurting me. Not on purpose, I know that. But I love you and every second that you don't love me back... it hurts.”

“15. WHENEVER I WENT OUT TO PLAY, MY MOTHER WANTED TO KNOW EXACTLY WHERE I WAS GOING TO BEWhen I'd come in, she'd call me into her bedroom, take me in her arms, and cover me with kisses. She'd stroke my hair and say, 'I love you so much,' and when I sneezed she'd say, 'Bless you, you know how much I love you, don't you?' and when I got up for a tissue she'd say, 'Let me get that for you I love you so much,' and when I looked for a pen to do my homework she'd say, 'Use mine, anything for you,' and when I had an itch on my leg she'd say, 'Is this the spot, let me hug you,' and when I said I was going up to my room she'd call after me, 'What can I do for you I love you so much,' and I always wanted to say, but never said: Love me less.”

“You can get used to anything - haven't I already said that? Isn't that what all survivors say?”