Insurgent, He Says. Noun. A

I Can't Force You. I Can't Make You Want To Survive This." He Pulls Me Against Him And Runs His Hand Over My Hair, Tucking It Behind My Ear. His Fingers Trail Down My Neck And Over My Shoulder, And He Says, "but You Will Do It. It Doesn't Matter If You Believe You Can Or Not. You Will, Because That's Who You Are.

People Talk About The Pain Of Grief, But I Don't Know What They Mean. To Me, Grief Is A Devastating Numbness, Every Sensation Dulled.

Grief Is Not As Heavy As Guilt, But It Takes More Away From You.

I Don't See Any Elderly People In The Crowd. Are There Any Old Dauntless? Do They Not Last That Long, Or Are They Just Sent Away When They Can't Jump Off Moving Trains Anymore?

This Concept Could Easily Have Gone Awry. Stories About Love Tend To Go That Way Sometimes. They Wander Into The Realm Of Cheese And Never Return, Which I Think Is A Shame, Because There Is A Way To Write About Romantic Love Without Breaking Out The Velveeta.