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

by Brigid Kemmerer

Sometimes I feel like the girl. Sometimes I feel like the bird. Sometimes I feel like the photographer, unable to do anything but watch. Kevin Carter killed himself after he won the Pulitzer. Sometimes I think I understand why.

Don’t you think it’s funny how people say “lost” as if they were just misplaced?

And our soul (or whatever) is supposed to go on forever? Where was it before?

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.

“Thanks for stopping Declan from—” She breaks off. “From . . . whatever he was going to do.” “I didn’t stop him. He stopped himself.”

I wonder, if I keep faking it, will I eventually believe it? A part of me worries that I’ll keep faking it and completely forget what’s real at all.

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