There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.

Because you can’t be as in love as we were and not have it invade your bone marrow. Our kind of love can go into remission, but it’s always waiting to return. Like the world’s sweetest cancer.

The worst feeling: when you just have to wait and prepare yourself for the lie.

I’m in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase?

from our book club read of the month, Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn