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.

Because our lies matched. It was a sign.

Because when you're posed, you know someone's watching. You put on your very best smile. You let your sweetest personality shine.

I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.

They were like two magnets who couldn't decide whether to attract or repel.

Like driving along a bumpy road and losing control of the steering wheel, tossing you—just a tad—off the road. The wheels kick up some dirt, but you're able to pull it back. Yet no matter how hard you try to drive straight, something keeps jerking you to the side. You have so little control over anything anymore. And at some point, the struggle becomes too much—too tiring—and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy... or whatever... to happen.