Hannah Baker

Hello, boys and girls. It's me—Hannah Baker. Live and in stereo, breaking the only promise I ever made to you: no return engagements.

Which begs the question I've been turning over all day—is something still a lie if you think it's the truth when you say it?

For example, imagine you promise to go to a friend's party, only to get food poisoning an hour before it starts. If you don't show up, does that make you a bad person? And if the answer is no, why not? Because you couldn't have known what the future held? Because it wasn't your fault?

Or if a girl mails out thirteen tapes believing she'll be dead by the time everyone listens to them, only to find herself waking up from a coma three months later, most definitely not dead, does that mean it was all some weird publicity stunt by a manipulative liar and drama queen?

I guess I'll find out public consensus tomorrow—during my first day back at Liberty High.

In the meantime, I'd say no. That's not what this was.

My therapist's theory is that it was all a last ditch attempt to connect to those around me, in the only way that felt safe—that is, in a way that held no chance of rejection or ridicule. Looking back, I think she was right.

And yes. My therapist knows about the tapes. My parents told her. They also handed her a copy, but she didn't listen until I gave her permission—about a month and a half in to the whole therapy deal, because, really, what do I have to hide now? Everybody else already knows everything. And I'm the only one I can blame for that.

So, Hannah, you may be wondering. What's the point, now? Why are you still talking to yourself? Has your stint in the psych ward made you even crazier? Is that even possible?

And I guess the simplest answer is that I don't know if there is a point. I'm not on any kind of mission, this time. I just need someone to talk to, and there isn't anybody else.

It was actually my therapist's suggestion that I return to the tapes. She insists I need to learn to talk about my feelings out before they escalate. The funny things, the only time I feel like I can really be myself is when I'm talking to this stupid recorder. So she said, talk to it more. Use it like a journal. Let it sort out what you feel.

And just what am I feeling tonight, on the eve of my return to Liberty High?

Scared. Unwanted. And I guess, strangely—dangerously—just the smallest bit hopeful.

So, ladies, gentleman, and children of all ages—welcome to Tape 7, Side B.

Welcome to Hannah Baker, trying to find some reasons to live.