Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what could have been. It’s too unbearable.

Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No one can get me here. No one even knows I'm here. I won't get any nasty letters and I won't get any nasty phone calls and I won't get any nasty visitors. It's like a sanctuary. I feel as if I'm fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my Homework. (And I haven't even got any of that.)

I know friends should be supportive of each other's life decisions and all that.

She says screens are the cigarettes of our age. They're toxic, and we're only going to realize the damage they're doing when it's too late.

You can't even communicate in English. Real life is not a series of levels.

Mi pare di aver capito una cosa, e cioè che la vita è questo, salire e poi scivolare più giù, e ricominciare a salire. Le scivolate non contano. L'importante è che il percorso nel suo insieme vada più o meno verso l'alto. E' il massimo che si può chiedere. Più o meno, salire.

This is the trouble with meeting people in real life: they don't come with profiles attached.