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Because the truth is so unbearable I wish he’d spare me a lie.
Hope will break your heart all over again.”
I never stopped to consider that someone else might have it worse than I do. It makes me feel ashamed for ever having felt sorry for myself.
“You should get a dog, love. I hear they share much the same qualities.”
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“Juliette,” Warner says, and I nearly fall into the toilet. “Come out here, love. It’s rude to eavesdrop.”
Words, I think, are such unpredictable creatures. No gun, no sword, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. Swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh.
I’ve finally gotten to a point in my life where I’m not afraid to speak. Where my shadow no longer haunts me.
I’d rather be shot dead screaming for justice than die alone in a prison of my own making.”
“Then you’d rather be dead?” he asks, angry again. “Is that what you’re saying? You’d rather be dead than try to build a life with me here?” “I would rather be dead,” I say to him,
“I don’t know what’s happening to me.” “They’re called hormones.”
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“Like—Adam was the first guy who was ever . . . nice to you. Hell, he was probably the first person in the world who was nice to you. And he can touch you. And he’s not, you know, disgusting looking.” A pause. “I can’t blame you, to be honest. It’s hard being lonely. We all get a little desperate sometimes.”
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“I’m here for you, kid. That’s what friends are for.”

