Paper Towns, by John Green

I just like listening, just loafing on the grass. And I decide that if we get there on time but don't find her, that's what we'll do: we'll drive around the Catskills and find a place to sit around and hang out, loafing on the grass, talking, telling jokes. Maybe the sure knowledge that she is alive makes all of that possible again--even if I never see proof of it. I can almost imagine a happiness without her, the ability to let her go, to feel our roots are connected even if I never see that leaf of grass again.