Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't
supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.
Holding Eleanor's hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive.
I want everyone to meet you. You're my favorite person of all time.
I don’t trust anybody. Not anybody. And the more that I care about someone, the more sure I am they’re going to get tired of me and take off.
In new situations, all the trickiest rules are the ones nobody bothers to explain to you. (And the ones you can't Google.)
To really be a nerd, she'd decided, you had to prefer fictional worlds to the real one.
What are the chances you’d ever meet someone like that? he wondered. Someone you could love forever, someone who would forever love you back? And what did you do when that person was born half a world away? The math seemed impossible.