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A flood of emotions rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

Jay Asher

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Jay Asher
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: September 30
Novelist
Writer
Arcadia
California
Sadness
Emotions
Anger
Emotion
Hope
Rushes
Pain
Flood
Surprising
Pity

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She wants to believe my excuses so bad. Every time I lie, she wants to believe me so much.
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You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything. . . affects everything.
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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.
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Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.
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I left. When I should have stayed.
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But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.
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A week went by and nothing. But eventually, as they always will, the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can't disprove a rumor.
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I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!
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I miss video games where the jump-kick was the trickiest combo to master.
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Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?
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I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag myself to the ivy.
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How in the world was I alone? Because I wanted to be. That's all I can say. It's all that makes sense to me.
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Because I've heard so many stories that I don't know which one is the most popular. But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.
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I repeat his words in my head. What's going on? What's going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I'm not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out. 'Not much,' I say.
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I swear, guys in groups are capable of the stupidest things. Like war, Kellan says, heaping napkins and ketchup packets onto her tray. And jumping off rooftops. And lighting their farts on fire, she says.
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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.
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If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land. If my love were a desert, you would see only sand. If my love were a star- late at night, only light. And if my love could grow wings, I'd be soaring in flight.
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I don't know exactly what it is, but it looks like interconnected websites where people show their photos and write about everything going on in their lives, like whether they found a parking spot or what they ate for breakfast. But why? Josh asks.
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Every reader is different. There's no book that's inappropriate for every person, but there are people who cannot handle everything.
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Stories about sensitive issues like sex, drugs or sexual assault, suicide and teen drinking, are often censored because people just don't want to talk about those things. It's not that these things don't happen, but when they're shared in a fictional setting, for some reason they make some people uncomfortable.
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