The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

by V.E. Schwab

“I remember you.” Three words, large enough to tip the world. I remember you.

“I see someone who cares,” she says slowly. “Perhaps too much. Who feels too much. I see someone lost, and hungry. The kind of person who feels like they’re wasting away in a world full of food, because they can’t decide what they want.”

The evening is quiet, and she is alone, but for once it is not the same as being lonely.

There is no violent push in one direction, but a softer nudge a hundred different ways, and now all of them feel out of reach.

But then she wakes, and sees the pink and orange dawn against the clouds, or hears the lament of a lone fiddle, the music and the melody, and remembers there is such beauty in the world. And she does not want to miss it—any of it.