I left. When I should have stayed.
You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own.
My breathing begins to slow. The tension in my muscles starts to relax. Then, a click in the headphones. A slow breath of air. I open my eyes to bright moonlight. And Hannah, with warmth. Thank you.
Maybe you didn’t know what people thought of you because they themselves didn’t know what they thought of you. Maybe you didn’t give us enough to go on, Hannah.
Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.
He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.
It may seem that every time someone offers you a hand up, they just let go and you slip further down.
Hannah wasn’t my first kiss, but the first kiss that mattered: the first kiss with someone who mattered.
And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life.
You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.
I needed a break... from myself.
And at some point, the struggle becomes too much-too tiring-and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy... or whatever... to happen.
To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.
I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxen-free.
Two steps behind her, I say her name. “Skye.
Josh turns to me. “I can’t believe she’s writing these things.” “Not she,” I say. “Me.” “Why would anyone say this stuff about themselves on the Internet? It’s crazy!” “Exactly,” I say. “I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.
When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life.
The name sounds almost too perfect. And as I said, you look perfect, too. The only thing left... is to be perfect.
With her fingers running back up my arms, and all this sperm talk, things are getting a little too intense down below. I lean slightly forward, conveniently placing my forearms across my lap.
Words too soft for me to hear at this distance. But in the end, the words reach me.