A blank canvas...has unlimited possibilities.

— Stephanie Perkins

A moment of reserve. "That was it? The whole story?"" Yes. God, you're right. That was pants." I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. "Pants?"" Rubbish. Crap. S

— Stephanie Perkins

And then I turn another corner, and my chest constricts so tightly, so painfully, that I can no longer breathe. Because there he is. He's engrossed in an oversize book, hunched over and completely absorbed. A breeze ruffles his dark hair, and he bites his nails. . . . Several other people are soaking up the rare sunshine, but as soon as they're registered, they're forgotten. Because of him. I grip the edge of a sidewalk café table to keep from falling. The diners stare in alarm, but I don't care. I'm reeling, and I gasp for air. How can I have been so stupid? How could I have ever for a moment believed I wasn't in love with him?

— Stephanie Perkins

And then there's the other thing. The thing I'm trying to ignore. The thing I shouldn't want, the thing I can't have. And he's standing in front of me right now. So what do I wish for? Something I'm not sure if I want? Someone I'm not sure if I need? Or someone I know I can't have? Screw it. Let the fates d

— Stephanie Perkins

And then this — the moment he calls my name — is the real moment everything changes. He is no longer St. Clair, everyone's pal, everyone's f

— Stephanie Perkins

And we're finally home.

— Stephanie Perkins

Andy once clipped a magazine article about how black dogs are always the last to be adopted at shelters and, therefore, more likely to be put down. Which is totally Dog Racism, if you ask me.

— Stephanie Perkins

Autumn is coming. For as long as I can remember, I've talked to the moon. Asked her for her guidance. There's something deeply spiritual about her waxing and waning. She wears a new dress every evening, yet she's always herself. And she's always there.

— Stephanie Perkins

Because that's the thing about depression. When I feel it deeply, I don't want to let it go. It becomes a comfort. I want to cloak myself under its heavy weight and breathe it into my lungs. I want to nurture it, grow it, cultivate it. It's mine. I want to check out with it, drift asleep wrapped in its arms and not wake up for a long, long time.

— Stephanie Perkins

But that's not quite right either. I miss Paris, but it's not home. It's more like... I miss this. This warmth over the telephone. Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place? Bridgette used to be home to me. Maybe St. Clair is my new home. I mull this over as our voices grow tired and we stop talking. We just keep each other company. My breath. His breath. My breath. His breath. I could never tell him, but it's true. This is home. The two of us.

— Stephanie Perkins