The Measure Of A Society Is Its

She Is Like A Child Picking At A Scab, Unable To Stop Herself Even Though She Knows It Will Hurt.

He Is A Man, And He Is Afraid. This Is Not A Good Combination.

Their Friendship Was More Important Than Any Relationship. Guys Would Come And Go; Girlfriends Were Forever.

He Was Afraid That The Secrets She'd Kept Would Always Be Here, Inside Him, An Ugly Malignant Thing Lodged Near Enough To His Heart To Upset Its Rhythm, And Though It Could Be Removed, Cut Out, There Would Always Be Scars; Bits And Pieces Of It Would Remain In His Blood, Making It Wrong Somehow, So That If He Accidentally Sliced His Skin Open, His Blood Would--for One Heartbeat--flow As Black As India Ink Before It Remembered That It Should Be Red.

From The First Time We Met, We Knew Everything That Mattered About Each Other, Didn't We? We Just Knew. I Guess That's What Best Friends Are: Parts Of Each Other.