I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!

And concentrating on the spot where the two spindles should be is the closest I get to looking Hannah's eyes as she tells my story.

Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.

I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.

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.

The longer you wait, and this is true, the slower the hands will move.

I can't. You can't rewrite the past.