" I was thinking, over Thanksgiving, that I don’t really know him. I don’t know what makes him tick—made him tick. Like, if he were the main character in the book I was reading, it’d only be chapter two. I’d know his name and who was in his daily life, but I’d be waiting to find out that thing that would make me care about his story. At least, that’s how I felt before. There was a whole book left. The promise that maybe if I kept reading I’d learn enough to make me like him—care about him. Only now, it’s like he was just a secondary character—a tertiary character. And the author hadn’t even thought about any more of a story for him. There just isn’t any more of him. And, I don’t know. That makes me fucking sad because I think probably he felt the same way about me. I know he cared about me, at least a little. I mean, I think so. And Colin and the guys, they knew him. And they’re fucking devastated he’s dead. And I’m jealous because….”
“Because?” Ginger prods.
“Because they were a family and I wasn’t part of it, "

― Roan Parrish , In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)