Every night, when I'm alone, I go outside and lie on the grass on my back. I smelled the fresh air as lingered in the sky like yesterday, or like any other day. But it's not the same anymore.

I once met a guy named Augustus Waters. He was a nice guy, and he had cancer too, like me. We both liked the same book, we had the same thoughts on life, it was a full circle for me. We once went to Amsterdam and met a guy named Peter van Houten. God damn guy is a dick. He won't even tell us about the end of A Mysterious Affair. Augustus seems pretty pissed with him too. Then he showed me the Anne Frank house and kissed on the spot, right there. Then he went to her bedroom and he took my hand, and he started to undress me, and I put my arms around him, and he puts my arms around me. Augustus hugs like a boa constrictor, his arms were as tight as tape, and the fresh lips of him smelled like cherries.

Then the worst happened. When we got back, Augustus' cancer had relapsed and it worsened as the days go on. He was at a gas station planning to buy cigarettes, then he started to choke. He spent his remaining days on a wheelchair.

Then that one night, that one fateful night, I received the news that Augustus has died. I was crying the Niagara Falls out of my eyes and screaming like a bitch. I felt so mad, and so depressed, I didn't talk to anybody for the rest of the day. Until that night, when a friend of his had sent to me his eulogy, and I remember those last words. The very last words that he said to me back at the chapel.

Always remember the fault in our stars. Okay?