The First to Die at the End

by Adam Silvera

Everyone wants to know how we can predict death. Tell me this. Do you ask pilots to explain aerodynamics before boarding the plane or do you simply travel to your destination?

Death-Cast might call at midnight, but it won’t be the first time someone tells me I’m going to die.

Freaking out about death every minute isn’t a good life, and yet, tons of people are freaking out about death every minute.

They made me feel like a stranger in my own home.

Freedom should be freeing, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be heartbreaking.

I’d rather be planets apart as long as she’s still breathing on the other side of the galaxy.

As for me, I’ve been reborn and I have a lot of living to do.

it’s wild how being attracted to someone can feel so exciting and dangerous, like he can be everything good and bad for me.

I can’t tell the color of his eyes, but man, I want to know.

As a writer, I’m always telling stories before I even know what they’re about, getting carried away and turning words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into chapters, chapters into love stories.

It’s not fair how someone can do everything right and still be hurt because someone else does one thing wrong.

“I understand that the person who gets the Death-Cast call isn’t the only one dying. If you really hold someone in your heart, you die too.”

“Here’s the truth no one ever wants to admit when death is on the horizon, or when you’re deep in that grief—as long as you keep existing, you’ll keep breathing, and if you’re breathing, one day you’ll start living again.”

I write short stories because I am one. I wish I was a novel. Breaths away from midnight, I know my final chapter is close. I look up at Valentino, wondering what life could’ve offered if I had more pages in me.

It’s heartbreaking how much it costs to be alive when you’re always dying.

I wish this were more like my fairy tale. Valentino should have many decades under his belt before finding peace with passing his heart like a baton to a young person in need. But unless there’s a miracle, our story won’t have a happily ever after. It’ll end in tragedy.

It’s part of my job to feel comfortable in my skin.

Frankie knows this End Day is his ticket out of debt and—if he’s lucky—this family.

The End Days have some horrors, but if you commit to living, they can be beautiful too.