The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

by V.E. Schwab

There are no stars visible, of course, but New York rolls away to every side, its own galaxy of light.

That at some point, between the first morning and the next, and the next, and the next, he thought she was gone. Addie throws her arms around him now. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and it is not just for the stolen week. It is for the deal, the curse, the fact it is her fault. “I’m sorry,” she says, over and over, and Henry doesn’t shout, doesn’t rage, doesn’t even say I told you so. He simply holds her tight, and says, “Enough,” says, “Promise me,” says, “Stay.”

And there in the dark, he asks if it was really worth it. Were the instants of joy worth the stretches of sorrow? Were the moments of beauty worth the years of pain? And she turns her head, and looks at him, and says, “Always.”

And this, he decides, is what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up. It is a door left open. It is drifting off to sleep. And he tells himself he is not afraid. Tells himself it is okay, he is okay.

tells him about the first time she flew a plane, heard a song on the radio, saw a moving picture.

This is the last gift she can give him, these moments he will never have. And this is the last gift he can give her, the listening.

That time always ends a second before you’re ready. That life is the minutes you want minus one.

He tips his head back, and feels the drip of rain on his cheeks, and thinks of the night they went to the Fourth Rail, the downpour that caught them breathless when they reached the street. He thinks of that before he thinks of the rooftop, and that is something.

There is an unspoken agreement that she will be there, with him, until the very end. That this time, he won’t be alone.

he can hear Bea’s voice in his head. Only you would arrive early to your own death.

They teach you growing up that you are only one thing at a time—angry, lonely, content—but he’s never found that to be true. He is a dozen things at once. He is lost and scared and grateful, he is sorry and happy and afraid. But he is not alone.

“Adeline,” he says, stroking her hair. “It will hurt. And it will pass. All things do.” “Except for us,” she murmurs. And then she adds, as if to herself, “I am glad it was only a year.”

“And how was it, your human love? Was it everything you dreamed of?” “No,” she says, and it is the truth. It was messy. It was hard. It was wonderful, and strange, and frightening, and fragile—so fragile it hurt—and it was worth every single moment.

“Think of it as a thank-you,” she says, “for seeing me. For showing me what it’s like to be seen. To be loved. Now you get a second chance. But you have to let them see you as you are. You have to find people who see you.”

“You better live a good life, Henry Strauss.”

All works currently on display at the Modern Museum of Art exhibit In Search of the Real Addie LaRue curated by Beatrice Caldwell, PhD, Columbia.

every story she ever told, and when he’s done, he closes his eyes, and puts his head in his hands amid the open books. Because the girl he loved is gone. And he’s still here. He remembers everything.

Belief is a bit like gravity. Enough people believe a thing, and it becomes as solid and real as the ground beneath your feet. But when you’re the only one holding on to an idea, a memory, a girl, it’s hard to keep it from floating away.

The world is wide, and he’s seen so little of it with his own eyes. He wants to travel, to take photos, listen to other people’s stories, maybe make some of his own. After all, life seems very long sometimes, but he knows it will go so fast, and he doesn’t want to miss a moment.

The covers are simple, most of the space given over to the title, which is long and large enough to fill the jacket. It’s written in cursive, just like the notes in the journals by the bed, a more legible version of her words in Henry’s hand.

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. She runs her fingers over the name, feels the embossed letters arc and curve beneath her touch, as though she had written them herself.

She peels back the cover, turns past the title to the dedication. Three small words rest in the center of the page. I remember you. She closes her eyes, and sees him as he was that first day in the store, elbows leaning on the counter as he looked up, and frowned at her behind his glasses. I remember you.

Addie has said so many hellos, but that was the first and only time she got to say good-bye. That kiss, like a piece of long-awaited punctuation. Not the em dash of an interrupted line, or the ellipsis of a quiet escape, but a period, a closed parenthesis, an end. An end.

A story is an idea, wild as a weed, springing up wherever it is planted.

For every reader who told me they couldn’t wait, while promising they would.