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Back The Infinite Noise Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

“Um, no, not really,” I admit. “I have friends and stuff but no one…”

I find myself thinking of the last day of school, going into the library and knowing, just knowing, that Adam Hayes was there. And then he was so startled and his feelings were all over the place, but there was something—

“No one…?” Dr. Bright prompts.

“No one whose feelings fit,” I finish. “I don’t know that focusing on anybody at school is actually going to help.”

“Well,” she says, “something to think about?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Something to think about.”

But I don’t have time to think about it, because the first few days of school are lost in a haze of other people’s bullshit. I got to English early today so that I’d have time to settle in before the onslaught of emotions, and it’s not exactly working. I have to close my eyes as the other students start coming into the room. I try to sift through the feelings; focus on the colors and try to figure out what I’m going to be up against for the next hour.

Red. Anger. That one’s pretty obvious. And it’s an emotion that I’m super familiar with.

Black sludge. I think that one is disappointment. But this is worse—this is dripping sludge. Hot and cold all at once. Ugh, I hate this one. I feel it all the time but I can’t figure out what’s different about it. And it makes me want to jump off a bridge.

Soft blue. It settles behind my eyes and makes my head heavy. Exhaustion. Dr. Bright tells me that being tired isn’t a real emotion, but I don’t buy it. There’s a certain kind of tired—a bone-deep weariness—that definitely qualifies as an emotion.

Off-white. Soft. Suffocating. Sadness.

Red again.

Black sludge.

Black sludge.

Black sludge.

God, it’s literally the first week of the semester, can’t people just chill?

Pins and needles under my skin. My breathing picks up. Traffic-cone orange. Stress.

Oof, a lot of stress.

And then.

Quiet. Blue-green. Not sharp like red and orange, but deep. Endless. It fills me up, empties me out. Clears out the sludge, the pins and needles, but makes me tense. Restless.

I open my eyes. Find his.

Adam.

6

ADAM

Caleb.

Why is it that, for the past week, every time I walk into a room, he’s staring at me? It’s like he has some sort of radar—he catches my eye wherever I go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume that some dark, omniscient power was out to make my life miserable. Not that I am particularly bereft in the misery department. But this just seems especially cruel.