"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

So much left to say. Your death was just like a black hole. A curse. Devouring my whole universe. Everytime I hear a crazy story, I think of you. Every randomly made up word reminds me of you. Five years ago I heard you say – I am dying soon, so take care of you. One year later – the same thing happened. The third time everyone was just tired of your announcement. You told about your life and we told about ours. I never realized how much you really meant to me – of course you were a part of my beloved family. But sometimes I thought you would be just … there for all of us. Forever. You would be there on my wedding day, you would tell me my boyfriend isn’t good enough for me and you would see my first child. But you didn’t even survived my 15th birthday. People die when they’re old. That’s life and if people wouldn’t, no one could live on this planet anymore. You had the blessing to get old. I had the blessing to see you once every week for 15 years. And that’s nice – isn’t it? Now I visit your grave as often as I can but of course it’s not the same. I’m selfish – I know. I want you to live, so I can ask you out about everything; I could tell you so much. I hadn’t seen you in the hospital. You got in with a little pain in your chest. The doctors said it should be alright soon. The next day I called my parents from the schoolbus to ask something and they told me you died. You just died. Without saying goodbye. And I cried – like almost everyone would. I cried a long time and then I stopped crying. After 3 months, I realized you are not there anymore. You can’t answer my countless questions and you can’t tease me like you did in your lovable way. So I stare at your picture and try to remember every answer you gave to me already. Just one question:
How can I think over all the silence you left here?