“Frankly, just between you and me, I'm ending up even worse than I started...”

“I feel too much. That's what's going on.' 'Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?' 'My insides don't match up with my outsides.' 'Do anyone's insides and outsides match up?' 'I don't know. I'm only me.' 'Maybe that's what a person's personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.' 'But it's worse for me.' 'I wonder if everyone thinks it's worse for him.' 'Probably. But it really is worse for me.”

“If I love you more than you love me, I'm as good as dead. Yet I can't make myself take it back. I can't just walk away from you, because every time you pass by me without smiling, without touching my hand, or at least making eye contact, it feels like I'm dying inside. And I'm pretty sure that hurts worse than whatever Marc would do to me. Whatever your dad would do. Hell, Faythe, I'm pretty sure that never touching you again would hurt worse than the nastiest death Calvin could think up for me.”

“Oh! What thing? A thing with Daemon, and if you say yes, please tell me that thing starts with an s and ends with an x.” I opened my eyes and frowned. “Geez, you’re worse than a dude.”

“I'm sorry? No more smooches is worse than the world ending?”

“It seems to me, though, that you always understand very well what I can't say very well. Trouble is I end up being even worse at saying things well.”