Sunday night, I reread The Catcher in the Rye until I felt tired enough to fall asleep. Only I never got tired enough. And I couldn't read, because reading didn't feel the same.

I watched the way they looked at each other. Any idiot could see they were in love, even if they were the only two idiots who couldn't.

There is a point. I don't know what it is, but everything I've had, and everything I've lost, and everything I felt-it meant something. Maybe there isn't a meaning to life. Maybe there's only a meaning to living. That's what I've learned. That's what I'm going to be doing from now on. Living. And loving, as sappy as it sounds

Ethan: I love you, I whispered in her ear. She held my face in her hands and leaned back so she could look at me. Lena: I don't think I could ever love anything the way I love you.

I said it, just like that. No stupid jokes, no changing the subject. For once, I wasn't embarrassed, because it was the truth. I had fallen. I think I had always been falling. And she might as well know, if she didn't already, because there was no going back now. Not for me.

Until then, you can do what everyone else your age does. Listen to music. Watch the television. Just keep your nose away from those books.

A little-known fact about me: I read all the time.