Jennifer Niven

feel a thousand capacities spring up in me

You should be on top of the f—ing world right now.

I wonder if I could pick out a few flowers for my girlfriend. It’s kind of an emergency.

Maybe that’s a strong word, and I’m sorry to alarm you. But winter is here, and I don’t know where I’ll be by spring. And she’s named for a flower, and her father hates me, and I want her to know that I’m thinking of her and that this isn’t a season of death but one for living.

I love: the way her eyes spark when we’re talking or when she’s telling me something she wants me to know, the way she mouths the words to herself when she’s reading and concentrating, the way she looks at me as if there’s only me, as if she can see past the flesh and bone and bullshit right into the me that’s there, the one I don’t even see myself.

fighting to be here in this shitty, messed-up world. Standing on the ledge of the bell tower isn’t about dying. It’s about having control. It’s about never going to sleep again.

And then I do something I swore I’d never do. I sign up for Facebook just so I can send her a friend request.

Maybe no one else will ever visit them and appreciate them or take the time to think they’re important, but maybe even the smallest places mean something.

“I’d like to buy.” Violet nods at me. “Can you reach the money in my bag?”

Instead, I pull out my wallet and hand Mrs. Carnes a twenty, which is the smallest I have, and she counts off the books. “

I’m too late. Too late for Finch. Too late once again.