Nova Ren Suma amerikai

[…] sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

“So if she wanted to kill me for—you know, upstairs—she’d have to ask you first?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We always ask before killing off each other’s boyfriends.”

"You don’t like him anymore.”
“I don’t?”
“You don’t. I won’t let you.”

Girls go missing every day. They slip out bedroom windows and into strange cars. They leave good-bye notes or they don’t get a chance to tell anyone. They cross borders. They hitch rides, squeezing themselves into overcrowded backseats, sitting on willing laps. They curl up and crouch down, or they shove their bodies out of sunroofs and give off victory shouts. Girls make plans to go, but they also vanish without meaning to, and sometimes people confuse one for the other. Some girls go kicking and screaming and clawing out the eyes of whoever won’t let them stay. And then there are the girls who never reach where they’re going. Who disappear. Their ends are endless, their stories unknown.

(első mondat)

She made me come alive when she said my name; her words gave me color, fluffed out my hair.

A boy once followed her around town for miles, tailgating her car and trailing her cart in the supermarket, and when she whirled around to ask what he wanted, he said he only wanted to say hi.

Fluffy white flakes of snow covering me just like they’d cover a dead body.

“Semihot?” she said, with some small concern. “How semi?”
“Oh, you know. Cuter in the dark.”

"Most people don’t have another person who’d do anything for you. Anything. Most people, in the end, really are all on their own.”

She had her back to me, but after some long moments her arm reached out, and her hand tapped my hand to be sure it was still there. I tapped back.