Getting up means leaving,” I say. “Yeah,” Rufus says. “Leaving means dying,” I say. “Nah. Leaving means living before you die. Let’s bounce.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. We both know that’s bullshit; it comes from people who have nothing comforting or original to say.

No matter how we choose to live, we both die at the end

12 hours ago I received the phone call telling me I'm going to die today, and I'm more alive now then I was

You didn't keep me alive, you made me live.

Malcolm stares out the window, wishing he could glimpse Rufus on his bike turning a corner, and he finally cries, these loud, stuttering sobs, not because he’ll now have a criminal record, not because he’s scared to go to the police station, not even because Rufus is dying, but because the biggest crime of all tonight was not being able to hug his best friend goodbye.

I want to hug him, but he doesn't want to be touched right now. Like any affection is going to become a target sign on our backs. Like we'll get punished because our hearts are different

It's time I use my words for good and stop twisting them just because I regret the truth.

I look up, and Jackson's eyes find mine. For a second, it almost feels like we're about to race into the hole to join you. Being buried alive has got to be better than whatever comes next.