“Then he almost but didn't say the two sentence he'd been meaning to say for years: part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you”

“Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.”

“I knew he was a prick, but a part of me wanted to hear what he'd say, to hear him say how sorry he really was that he'd screwed up. I wanted groveling for forgiveness and pledges of undying love. As dumb as I knew it was, I wanted him to fight for me, to prove that I hadn't made a mistake by believing in him. Or us.”

“I stand to leave, but my father says, “Wait!” over the red telephone. “Let me just look at you a minute.” He smiles at me proudly. “I know you been in some trouble, son, but you turned out good. That’s all I ever wanted,” he tells me. Then he puts his hand against the glass and I put my hand against the glass. “I love you,” he says.“I love you, too,” I say back.”

“You nearly died today,' he says. 'I almost shot you. Why didn't you shoot me, Tris?''I couldn't do that,' I say. 'It would have been like shooting myself.'He looks pained and leans closer to me, so his lips brush mine when he speaks.”

“He'd also warn me that even if I was in a position of strength, whether at work or in relationships, I had to play fair. "Just because you're in the driver's seat," he'd say, "doesn't mean you have to run people over.”