But You Can Never Love People As Much As You Can Miss Them

　　He could hear her eyes rolling as she said, "You are probably the only person I've ever known who wants to be a Siamese twin."

　　"Conjoined twin," Colin corrected. "Did you know that there is a word for a person who is not a conjoined twin?" he asked her.

　　"No. What is it? Normal person?"

　　"Singleton," he said. "The word is Singleton." And she said, “That's funny, Col. Listen, I really have to go. I've got to pack for camp. Maybe we shouldn't talk till I get back. Just some time away from it would be good for you, I think." And even though he wanted to say, We're supposed to be FRIENDS, remember? And What is it? New boyfriend? And I love you entirely, he just mumbled, "Just please listen to the message," and then she said, "Okay. Bye," and he didn't say anything because he wasn't going to be the person who ended the conversation or hung up, and then he heard the deadness in his ear and it was over. Colin lay down on the dry, orange dirt and let the tall grass swallow him up, making him invisible. The sweat pouring down his face was indistinguishable from his tears. He was finally—finally—crying. He remembered their arms entangled, their stupid little inside jokes, the way he felt when he would come over to her house after school and see her reading through the window. He missed it all. He thought of being with her in college, having the freedom to sleep over whenever they wanted, both of them at Northwestern together. He missed that, too, and it hadn’t even happened. He missed his imagined future.

　　You can love someone so much, he thought. But you can never love people as much as you can miss them.

An Abundance of Katherines, P104-105
John Green
ISBN 978-0-14-241070-7