I’m over beign a coward. I’m sick of being on pause, of being buried and hidden, of being petrified, in both senses of the word.
They’re my ladies,” she’d tell Bails and me. “Halfway between here and there.
Who knows if destiny is just how you tell yourself the stroy of your life?
What people say before they die will come true.
We will never be those people again. She took them all with her.
You’re the author of you own story.
Then I lie down on my back on the spongy forest floor. I love doing this – giving it all up to the enormity of they sky, or to the ceiling if the need arises while I’m indoors.
If I don’t talk about it, I can just pretend it didn’t happen.
How can something this momentous be happening to me without her? And what about all the momentous things to come? How will I go through each and every one of them without her?
Las personas, cuando se enamoran, arden en llamas.
I feel guilty that I’m still here...
Este secreto me hace sentir como si llevara ascuas en el interior del pecho.
It’s like finally going to confession only to find out the priest has earplugs in.
My first day back to school is just as I expect, the hall does a red sea part when I come in, conversations hush, eyes swim with nervous sympathy, and everyone stares as if I’m holding Bailey’s dead body in my arms, which I guess I am. Her death is all over me, I can feel it and everyone can see it, plain as a big black coat wrapped around me on a beautiful spring day.
He didn’t know the moment he left in the morning, I’d go through the secret sketchpads he hid under his bed. It was like he’d discovered a whole new color spectrum. It was like he’d found another galaxy of imagery. It was like he’d replaced me.
I blow up the freaking country. No one notices.
I look up at the warmth in his face and smile at him. I think he could make me smile even while I was hanging at the gallows.
I want to play How Would You Rather Die? instead of figuring out how to live. But I can’t. I’m over being a coward.
I want to, though, want to do something, have to do something. Like kiss Brian. The idea snags me and then I can’t get out of it. I totally should’ve tried. But what if he’d punched me? Cracked my head open with a meteorite? Oh, but what if he hadn’t? What if he’d kissed me back? Because I’d catch him staring at me sometimes when he didn’t think I was paying attention to him. I was always paying attention to him.
But it was all a ruse – we played so we could fall asleep in the same bed without having to ask, so we could wrap together like a braid, so while we slept our dreams could switch bodies.