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

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

It may seem that every time someone offers you a hand up, they just let go and you slip further down.

But they were wrong. There was a reason.

Teens in the '90s had the same basic desires as they do now.

His door is closed behind me. It's staying closed. He's letting me go. I think I've made myself very clear, but no ones stepping forward to stop me. A lot of you cared, just not enough. And that...that is what i needed to find out. And I did find out. And I'm sorry.

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