“But his letters . . . I took them with me, let the "ounces" cry aloud. I tried to leave, and could not. They would not be left; it was not my fault. I will not be scolded.”

“I considered him and felt the now familiar crush of emotions weighing on me, begging me to cave in and fall into his strong arms.I pushed back with every ounce of energy I had left. Every time I trusted someone, I got hurt. Every time I let go, I was let down. Not again. I would drive them away before the left.”

“If only they would all just leave me alone with my books and my letters, I would be content to let life, and the world pass me by”

“With shaking hands, I hold the letter and slide my back down the wall until I'm on the floor. My tears drop on what he's written, leaving blurred ink in its place. I cry for everything that's lost. I cry that he gave up. I cry for the anger in his words. I cry that he's found someone that has made him consider letting me go. I cry for the day I ever met him and thought I could handle someone like him. I cry that the girl he met that day in the restaurant is long gone.And I cry because I don't know what to do with this person that's left.”

“At first I was afraid that I would be left defenseless, that I would babble aloud the things I've always been terrified of saying. Instead, opium made me realize that I could say anything I liked without losing my identity.”

“I think unconsciously I was afraid that if she asked me how I felt, my unleashed grief and rage would kill us all. In some unadmitted corner of myself I was already weeping and screaming and begging her not to leave me, not to go. If I started crying for real, only her comfort could make me stop, and if she died before she had finished comforting me, then I would be left to cry forever.”