Part of me wanted this more than anything else in the world—to have someone to hang out with, be like everyone else for a while. The rest of me screamed to get the hell out of there, not to get sucked in.

You get use to someone—start to like them, even—and they leave. In the end, everyone leaves.

He loved me and I loved him, but the number in my head was telling me that he was going to die today. And the numbers had never been wrong.

I don't understand, Jem. I don't understand why you'd leave me. Why would you that?