To be clear; I'm talking about the book. The movie was a grievous tragedy that broke the hearts of readers across the nation and, undoubtedly, the world.My copy of All the Bright Places is dog-eared and worn, with notes in the margins and glitter between the pages. It's been dropped in baths and squashed in schoolbags under textbooks that weigh more than any book ever should. It's been lost under beds and left in cars, but this story will always find its way back to me.
When I first read All the Bright Places, I was thirteen and didn't know what it was like to be miserable, but I thought I'd seen it all and the way Theodore Finch recounted the "asleep" made me feel like I wasn't alone anymore. Violet's struggles became mine, and I felt Finch's pain with him. The words danced across the pages like nothing I'd ever read before, and I plunged myself into the reality Finch had been living. To me, that book was everything.
Every time I reread this book, new sentences jump out at me, new words make their way into my heart. Every time I reread this book, I fall in love with it all over again. Every time I reread this book, I make my way home.
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