Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

What is the point, she thinks, of loving something you are doomed to lose? Of holding on to someone who cannot hold on to you?

And here is the awful thing about belief. It is a current, like compulsion. Hard to forge when it goes against your will, but easy enough when it carries you the way you want to go.

“What am I supposed to do?” “Be alone,” he says, and the thought is enough to break her. “It’s too hard,”