“You what?" Dale yelped, looking like I'd handed him something dead. "You ain't writing during summer vacation, are you? I'm pretty sure that's against the rules.”

“Recovering from a gunshot wound is not a vacation. You need to, like, write that on your hand or something.”

“Nope sorry. Haven't seen him," he finally said. He handed back my phone, his warm fingers brushing against my skin. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember eyes like yours.”

“You love something that ain't there and then you start hating what is there, and that's hell.”

“That thing that looks like me but isn't? He'll burn down the world if Sebastian wants him to, and laugh while he's doing it. That's what you're saving, Clary. That. Don't you understand? I'd rather be dead—”

“This book I'm reading says if you want to be as thin as a stalk of celery, then that's what you should be eating. I'm not sure I want to look like celery, but I know I don't want to look like a biscuit.”