“He wasn’t her anything. Why did she feel like she needed him so desperately?…She wished it would rain hard and long and clear everything away. Rain never came when you asked for it…”
“Having it was ecstasy, but its sudden, inexplicable loss was too painful to bear. She’d rather go through her life doubting such a thing was possible, than knowing it was real and she couldn’t have it.
What a pitiful waste she was. She was willing to give away, to throw away, the very best she had. For what? It was one thing to sacrifice yourself for a great cause. It was another to destroy yourself for a person who didn’t even want you. It was an act of self-immolation, a sacrifice nobody wanted, that did nobody any good. What could be more tragic than that?
She thought she was independent and strong, but she got one small taste of love and she was hungrier than anyone.
She was ravenous.”
“How could a person transform from her hero to her destroyer in so short a time?”
“She needed to be free of him. She needed to get on with her life. Maybe even fall in love again…It was easy to wish to let go of the torture of missing him. It seemed easy, at least. But there was a catch. To let go of the pain, she had to give up the other parts too: the feeling of being loved. The feeling of being wanted and even needed. The way he looked at her and touched her. The way her name sounded when he said it. The number of times he’d written I love you…It wasn’t the suffering she wilfully clung to. It was the precious stuff. But the precious stuff attached her, irrevocably, to the pain.”