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

‎Because if I hadn't been so afraid of everyone else, I might have told Hannah that someone cared. And Hannah might still be alive.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

And as I stood there in the hallway―alone―trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn't worth an explanation―not even a reaction. Not in your eyes.

I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.

But sometimes there’s nothing left to do but move on.

Why does it say she has three hundred and twenty friends?" Josh asks. "Who has that many friends?