Look, let me just say it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and it is, at best, awkward and, at worst, a form of assault. But a hot boy . . . well.

I may die young, but at least I'll die smart.

Sunlight feels warm and rough against your skin like a kiss on the cheek from your dad.

And in my classes, I will talk most of the time, and you will listen most of the time. Because you may be smart, but I've been smart longer.

Truth resists simplicity.

You can't just make me different, and the leave. Because I was fine before.

I kept waiting for that loneliness and nervousness to make me want to go back. But it never did.