Furthermore

So she couldn't have know then that Oliver's lies were motivated not by cruelty, but by fear. Fear of rejection, of abandonment, of interminable loneliness. There was very little she knew about his interior life, simply because she'd never asked.

But Alice underestimated the space she took up in the hearts and minds of those she met and she had no way of knowing how her absence would affect the ones she loved.

[...] and when their eyes met, they both apologized. Regrets and reconciliations, all at once.
[...] Then she slipped her hand in his and held on tight.

Love had made her fearless, and wasn't it strange? It was so much easier to fight for another than it was to fight for oneself.

It was a silly thing to do, talking to butterflies. Falling in love was their favorite way to pass the time.

You must step inside a world to see it honestly. A passing glance won't do.

And even though she'd always hoped, always wanted to believe there was something more out there —another magical place in the world— now that the actual possibility was staring her in the face, she wasn't sure how to believe it.

But just because I know you're not lying doesn't make it any easier for me to believe you.

I haven't the slightest inclination to run off any place with any persons who tell more lies than truths.

They stood there awhile, the two of them, chest heaving as they glared at each other. Each was fighting a difficult personal battle, and both were too proud to share aloud their pain.