If you take Alaska’s genetic code and you add her life experiences and the relationships she had with people and then you take the size and shape of her body, you do not get her. There is something else entirely. There’s a part of her greater than the sum of her knowable parts. And that part has to go somewhere, because energy once created is never destroyed. And if Alaska took her own life… that is the hope I wish I could have given her, to understand that anything in life is survivable, because we are as indestructible as we believe ourselves to be. So I know she forgives me just as I forgive her. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. We can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. I know so many last words, but I’ll never know hers. I’ll never know her thoughts in those last minutes. We’ll never know if she left us on purpose. But the not knowing will not keep me from caring. Alaska’s last words to me were: “To be continued.” And she was right. I must continue. I choose the labyrinth, even if there is no way out, even if we’re all going, even if everything falls apart.

— Looking for Alaska (2019)