I Think They're Going To

"what Did You Do?” This Time The Question Tears From My Throat Like A Growl. I Throw Myself Toward Him. “what Did You Do?” I Scream. “you Die, I Die Too. I Asked You Not To Do This. You Made Your Decision. These Are The Repercussions."

I’d Ask You To Hang Out With Us, But You’re Not Supposed To See Me This Way.’… ‘what Way?’ I Ask. ‘drunk?’ ‘yeah…well, No.’ His Voice Softens. ‘real, I Guess.’ ‘i’ll Pretend I Didn’t.’ ‘nice Of You.’ He Puts His Lips Next To My Ear And Says, ‘you Look Good, Tris.’… I Laugh. ‘do Me A Favor And Stay Away From The Chasm, Okay?’ ‘of Course.’ He Winks At Me.

I Don't Have A Bullet In My Head, Do I? So I'm Fine.

Guilt [is] A Tool, Rather Than A Weapon Against The Self.

I Watch Her Blond Head Until It Disappears Around The Bend, And I Feel Bare, Like There's Nothing Left To Protect Me Against Pain. Her Absence Stings Worst Of All.