Confess

by Colleen Hoover

“Confused,” I say. “Why in the world do people drink if it makes them feel like this the next day?” I continue counting steps, and it takes him about eight before he answers me. “It’s an escape,” he says. I glance at him but quickly look straight ahead again, because turning my head doesn’t feel so hot, either. “I get that, but is escaping for a few hours really worth the hangover the next day?” He’s quiet for eight steps. Nine. Ten. Eleven. “I guess that would depend on the reality you’re trying to escape.”

“There are people you meet that you get to know, and then there are people you meet that you already know.”

“That’s what scares me,” I tell him. “I’m afraid if I listen to my heart once, I’ll never figure out how to ignore it again.”

I mean, I know he’s about the same age as me, but death makes him look younger than he should. Death should only be acquainted with the old.