And yes, again, that was it exactly. A retyper and not a writer. A prodigy and not a genius.

Dear Teens at Starbucks wearing 'Abstain from Sex 2 Attain Ur Goals' t-shirts: Doesn't it depend on what my goals are?

I told Augustus the broad outline of my miracle: diagnosed with Stage IV thyroid cancer when I was thirteen. (I didn’t tell him that the diagnosis came three months after I got my first period. Like: Congratulations! You’re a woman. Now die.)

He really was beautiful. I know boys aren’t supposed to be, but he was.

And as paralyzing and upsetting as all the never agains were, the final leaving felt perfect. Pure. The most distilled possible form of liberation. Everything that mattered except one lousy picture was in the trash, but it felt so great. I started jogging, wanting to put even more distance between myself and school. It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.

You are going to live a good and long life filled with great and terrible moments that you cannot even imagine yet.

Such is life. We grow up. Planets like Tiny get new moons. Moons like me get new planets.