It's so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental complaint -- it's a physical thing, like it's physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don't come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people's words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.

"I can't eat any more either," I say. I've managed five bites. My stomach is churning and closing fast. It's all such inoffensive food; I shouldn't have any problems with it. I should be able to eat three plates of it. I'm a growing boy; I shouldn't have trouble sleeping; I should be playing sports! I should be making out with girls. I should be finding what I love about this world. I should be frickin' eating and sleeping and drinking and studying and watching TV and being normal.

"How are you feeling?" she whispers.
"Not good."
She nods. Sarah know what this means. It means she'll see me on the couch tonight, tossing and turning and sweating as Mom brings me warm milk. It means she'll see me watching TV, but not really watching, just staring and not laughing, as I don't do my homework. It means she'll see me sinking and failing. She reacts well to this. She does more schoolwork and has more fun. She doesn't want to end up like me. At least I'm giving someone an example not to follow.

Bike, eat, drink, talk. Ride the subway, read, read maps. Make maps, make art. Finish the Gates application. Tell my dad not to stress about it. Hug my mom. Kiss my little sister. Kiss my dad. Make out with Noelle. Make out with her more. Take her on a picnic. See a movie with her. See a movie with Aaron. Heck, see a movie with Nia. Have a party. Tell people my story. Volunteer at 3 North. Help people like Bobby. Like Muqtada. Like me. Draw more. Draw a person. Draw a naked person. Draw Noelle naked. Run, travel, swim, skip. Yeah, I know it’s lame, but, whatever. Skip anyway. Breathe... Live.

Some of the most profound truths about us are things that we stop saying in the middle