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God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe I just look guilty of something and he’s picking up on that.

Jay Asher

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Jay Asher
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: September 30
Novelist
Writer
Arcadia
California
Looks
Something
Freaking
Picking
Guilty
Maybe
Doesn
Look

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Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that aren't even true—that aren't really how we feel—but they're running through our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.
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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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That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.
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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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Because when you're posed, you know someone's watching. You put on your very best smile. You let your sweetest personality shine.
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All you really have... is now.
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You can't stop the future You can't rewind the past The only way to learn the secret ...is to press play.
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But I need to wake up somehow. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s best to get through the day half-asleep. Maybe that’s the only way to get through today.
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It's nothing. A school project. My go-to answer for anything. Staying out late? School project. Need extra money? School project.
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And what if in the future we're at war again, or we still haven't elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much.
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Yes, it feels great to plan your life when you believe everything can turn out fine. But what about when you're shown, again and again, how little control you have over anything? No matter what I do to try to fix my future, it doesn't work.
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Don't give up on me now. I'm sorry. I guess that's an odd thing to say. Because isn't that what I'm doing? Giving up?
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And as I stood there in the hallway―alone―trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn't worth an explanation―not even a reaction. Not in your eyes.
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That’s when I said it. That’s when I whispered to her, “I’m so sorry.” Because inside, I felt so happy and sad at the same time. Sad that it took me so long to get there. But happy that we got there together.
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I decided to find out how people at school might react if one of the students never came back.
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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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