You're baking?""Yes.""It's almost midnight.""I specialize in late-night kitchen disasters.

You're the one I like. Maybe love.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I really like you. A lot. But if you don't feel the same way about me, it's okay. Because you're really important to me, and I hope we can still be friends.

Before I could catch it, my heart slammed straight down to my feet, leaving me with a massive hole in my chest. It was amazing how I could just be going along, doing okay, and then suddenly-wham-I missed her so much even my fingernails hurt.

And why did he have to call me “quiet”? I hated being called quiet. People always said it like it was some kind of deficiency—like just because I didn’t put everything out there right away, I was unfriendly or arrogant. My mom had understood. You may be slow to warm up, but once you do, you light up the whole room

I thought I wanted caprice and fire, but it turns out that what I really want is someone who will wake me up early so I don't miss a sunrise.

He turned around and I felt the shards of my broken heart crumble to dust.

Well, in that case, no. I’m not your father. But if you go with another definition, meaning ‘a man who wants to be in your life and help raise you,’ then yes. I am.

Hey, I just thought of something.""What?""When we're together, we make one whole Italian.