Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)

by Brigid Kemmerer

For Michael I’m so lucky to be on this crazy ride with you. (Mostly because we keep each other from jumping off.)

I still hate this. I say I don’t care what people think of me, but that’s a lie. You’d care, too, if everyone thought you were nothing more than a ticking time bomb.

We’re all united by grief, and somehow divided by the same thing.

Sometimes I think fate conspires against us. Or maybe fate conspires with us.

I don’t know what the point of this story is, except maybe to say that sometimes you get to a point where it hurts too much, and you’ll do anything to get rid of the pain. Even if it means doing something that hurts someone else.

Sometimes you get to a point where it hurts too much, and you’ll do anything to get rid of the pain. Even if it means doing something that hurts someone else.

Do you believe in fate? Sometimes I want to. I want to believe that we all walk some path toward . . . something, and our paths intertwine for a reason. Like this, the way we’ve found each other. The way you told me the right story when I so desperately needed to hear it.

If you’re going to write to me at 3:30 a.m., you can’t end it like that. I’m not ready for fate to tear this apart, okay? Now write back and tell me you’re all right.

I’m stuck in this rut of anger and pain and loss, but the more people try to drag me out of it, the more I feel determined to dig my heels in and cling to the grooves in the dirt.

Guilt is not a competition. Or at least it shouldn’t be.

Everyone else is going to see this as some kind of turning point, I’m sure. Oh look, she’s back to herself. What they don’t know is that I’m terrified. That must mean I’m veering away from fate, right? Making my own way? Because the other path was a heck of a lot less frightening.

I followed your lead and did something unexpected. You’re right. It was terrifying. Let’s do it again.

“Never is okay, you know,” he murmurs. I draw back a bit. “What?” “You said ‘not yet.’” He looks at me. “I’ll leave it up to you. But ‘never’ is okay, too, Jules. Never is always okay.”

“One day isn’t your whole life, Murph.” He waits until I look at him. “A day is just a day.”

I can’t believe I don’t know who you are, because right now I want to wander the halls of this school until I find you, so I can grab you and shake you and tell you THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT. Do you understand me? THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT.

It’s okay to succeed at something your mother did. Even in a different way.

You can see it on her face. Her reality is being ripped away, and she knows it.

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed. You were a child, Murph. And you’re still a kid, but she’s letting you walk around with this kind of guilt. You know why I think she doesn’t visit your father? Because she doesn’t want to face her own responsibility. As far as I’m concerned, she should be right there next to you mowing.”

TD: Are you okay? CG: I don’t know what I am. TD: What can I do? CG: Talk to me. If you don’t mind.

She’s the fiercest girl I’ve ever met, but I want to sit in the dark and hold her hand to show her she’s not alone.

TD: Mind? I could talk to you forever.

“Lately,” he says, more steadily, “I feel like everything is a test.” He swallows. “And I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to failing.”

But the reality is here, right here, how two people who should have my back stand here driving me into the ground.

“But I was here for those three days. And I’ll be here for all the other days, as long as you need me.”

“You were the first person to see all of me, Juliet. The first person who made me feel like I was worth more than a reputation and a record. That’s the hardest part of losing Cemetery Girl. I don’t know if anyone will look at me that same way again.”

“I see all of you,” I say. “And I’m looking at you that way now.”