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.

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

We all know the sound a camera makes when it snaps a picture. Even some of the digitals do it for nostalgia’s sake.

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.

You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have is...now.

Because our lies matched. It was a sign.

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.