When you write a book for publication, you're writing it for other people to read.

A flood of emotions rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.

You can hear rumors. But you can't know them.

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

Every reader is different. There's no book that's inappropriate for every person, but there are people who cannot handle everything.

Whenever I'm out late she makes a sandwich for my school lunch. I always protest and tell her not to, saying I'll make my own when I get home. But she likes it. She says it reminds her of when I was younger and needed her.