When one is sitting in his bedroom and, happening to glance out the window, sees his little brother walking slowly down the driveway, he immediately jumps up, knocks over a stack of magazines piled up...

Maybe we all just exist, all versions of us exist at times, and we have to figure out a way to get to each of them, to find each one and tell that version that...

I’m sorry, Cullen. I really am. I know this sucks. But you’re better off anyway. And you’ll be fine. You needed me. Now someone else needs me.