“Today there's no one here, so I find a rock and open my notebookfilled with letters to Lucca,reading them,noticing how the lettersdecreased in frequencyover the past couple of months.When i started,shortly after he died,I wrote them every day.I hurt so bad, I wanted to scream,but I couldn't,so my words on the pagebecame a diary of the pain.”

“Many times when I read a book, I want to savor each word, each phrase, each page, loving the prose so much, I don’t want it to end. Other times the story pulls me in, and I can hardly read fast enough, the details flying by, some of them lost because all that matters is making sure the character is all right when it’s over.”

“Oftentimeswhen I read a book,I want to savoreach word,each phrase,each page,loving the proseso much,I don't want itto end.Other timesthe story pulls me in,and I can hardlyread fast enough,the details flying by,some of them lostbecause all that mattersis making surethe characteris all rightwhen it's over.”

“I wanted to freezein the moment in my mindforeverbecause there's nothing betterthan flutters of the heart”

“I want him to live,” he says.I watch, helpless, as the pain slips out.Tears fallwhen he whispers, “But damn it, I want to live, too.”

“I don't want to worryI don't want to be sadI have so much to be happy about”

“How many days was I like that? Pretending to listen, but not hearing a word? Pretending to care when I hated it all? Pretending to live when I was dying inside?”