Why Is Your Heart Racing Tris?

His Hands Skim My Bare Arms. “just Bounce A Little When You Walk,” He Says, Kissing My Forehead, “and Pretend You’re Afraid Of Their Guns” —another Kiss Between My Eyebrows— “and Act Like The Shrinking Violet You Could Never Be ”—a Kiss On My Cheek— “and You’ll Be Fine.

I Slowly Realized That Perfectionism Just Not That Important. What's More Important Is To Try To Love The People Around You. Whatever That Means At A Particular Time Is The Best You Can Do.

He Turns Toward Me. I Want To Touch Him, But I’m Afraid Of His Bareness; Afraid That He Will Make Me Bare Too. ‘is This Scaring You, Tris?’ ‘no,’ I Croak. I Clear My Throat. ‘not Really. I’m Only…afraid Of What I Want.’ ‘what Do You Want?’ Then His Face Tightens. ‘me?’ Slowly I Nod.

He Is Not Sweet Or Gentle Or Particularly Kind. But He Is Smart And Brave, And Even Though He Saved Me, He Treated Me Like I Was Strong. That Is All I Need To Know.

Four Grabs A Bar With Each Hand And Pulls Himself Up, Easy, Like He's Sitting Up In Bed. But He Is Not Comfortable Or Natural Here--- Every Muscle In His Arm Stands Out. It Is A Stupid Thing For Me To Think When I Am One Hundred Feet Off The Ground.