Whoever said that the past isn't dead had it backward. It's the future that's already dead, already played out.

Pero yo sabía que con Adam sí había motivos para armar revuelo. Lo sabía por el calor que recorrió mi cuerpo aquella noche, cuando me dejó en casa después del concierto y me besó una vez más en la puerta. Lo sabía porque me quedé despierta hasta el amanecer abrazada a la almohada. Porque no puede comer al día siguiente, ni borrarme la sonrisa de la cara.

I’ve blamed her for all of this, for leaving, for ruining me. And maybe that was the seed of it, but from that one little seed grew this tumor of a flowering plant. And I’m the one who nurtures it. I water it. I care for it.I nibble from its poison berries. I let it wrap around my neck, choking the air right out of me. I’ve done that. All by myself. All to myself.

Yeah, but some things you can't control, no matter how hard you try.

he kissed me hard. "Promise me. Promise me you'll spend New Year's with me next year," he whispered into my ear.

I only need a second. So I can show her that I'm here. That someone's still here.

In books and movies, the stories always end when the two people finally have their romantic kiss. The happily-ever-after part is just assumed

But I'm still standing. I'm still breathing. And somehow, I'm okay.

Adam is mumbling something now. In a low voice. Over and over he is saying: please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Finally, he stops and looks at my face. "Please, Mia," he implores. "Don't make me write a song.