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"Go through all the holidays, birthdays, and voilà, it won't hurt as much as the first time around." - about grief

A steady, ordinary life can be extraordinary so long as it's centered around family and community and filled with love.

At birth, each person unwittingly signs a contract to say goodbye to everyone they're about to meet. Life is merciless in that way, in its promise to end.

Mia turns toward her sister, grief tattooed across her face like winter's shadow.

The most beautiful people tend to be a little bit nuts.

Look, we are not unspectacular things.
We've come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

Okay actually enjoying the last 100 pages

does this book ever end 🫠

a bit bored

I know you believe in reincarnation. I don't know if I do but I hope it is real. (…) Maybe you'll be a girl and maybe your name will be Rose again and you'll have a room full of books with parents who will read you bedtime stories in a country not touched by war. Maybe then; in that life and in this future, you'll find this book and you'll know what happened to us. And you'll remember me. Maybe.

"Hey," he said, half-asleep, "what were you before you met me?"
"I think I was drowning."

I’m sorry I keep saying How are you? when I really mean Are you happy?

Too much joy, I swear, is lost in our desperation to keep it.

It's not fair that the word laughter is trapped inside slaughter.

In Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same: nhó. Sometimes, when you ask me over the phone, Con nhớ mẹ không? I flinch, thinking you meant, Do you remember me?

I miss you more than I remember you.

They have a pill for it. They have an industry. They make millions. Did you know people get rich off of sadness? I want to meet the millionaire of American sadness. I want to look him in the eye, shake his hand, and say, "It's been an honor to serve my country."

They say nothing lasts forever but they’re just scared it will last longer than they can love it.

They say every snowflake is different- but the blizzard, it covers us all the same.

Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.

Because a bullet without a body is a song without ears.

I look at him. I look him dead in the eyes and do what you do. I refuse to die.

Days I feel like a human being, while other days I feel more like a sound. I touch the words not as myself but as an echo of who l was. Can you hear me yet?
Can you read me?

When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?

Because freedom, l am told, is nothing but the distance between the hunter and its prey.

Dear Ma,
I am writing to reach you - even if each word I put down is one word further from where you are.

I looked at the girl in portrait. They should have let her always be that girl.

Do houses ever die of grief?
Only the decent ones.

They were living together in their own paradise of memory.