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“Art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.”
― Fredrik Backman, My Friends

“That loathsome opiate, relief, raced through my veins again—sharp and lucid at the initial prick, before everything went numb. I heard one of the others, maybe Filippa, exhale and I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt it. The moral outrage we should have suffered was quietly put down, suppressed like an unpleasant rumor before it had a chance to be heard. Whatever we did—or more crucially, did not do—it seemed that so long as we did it together, our individual sins might be abated. There is no comfort like complicity.”
― M.L. Rio, If We Were Villains

“Don't you know that you can have anything you want?" His eyes searched mine. "I'll hurt anyone for you."

The weight on my chest was too heavy, it almost hurt to breathe.

"Who is it?" he asked. "Who do I have to hurt?”
― Penelope Douglas, Nightfall

“People sometimes say that sorrow is mental but longing is physical. One is a wound, the other an amputated limb, a withered petal compared to a snapped stem. Anything that grows closely enough to what it loves will eventually share the same roots. We can talk about loss, we can treat it and give it time, but biology still forces us to live according to certain rules: plants that are split down the middle don’t heal, they die.”
― Fredrik Backman