13 reasons why original ending

"Clay, Hannah is alive."

She stands at the end of my row of lockers. Her eyes, her cheeks, are wet with tears. She takes in a short breath, like the air is thick and jagged. And I notice I haven't taken a breath since hearing my name.

She wipes the cuff of her sleeve across her cheeks. "Hard to believe, isn't it?" She says. "Almost can't believe it."

I almost snap. It would feel so easy to start yelling at her. To hear my voice fill the area and spill down the hall to Mr. Porters room. 

Instead, I force my voice into a hard whisper. "She wasn't lying, Courtney."

Looking down, through clenched teeth, Courtney says, "you know thats not what I'm talking about, Clay."

Look at me, I want to tell her. Lift your head so I can see your eyes. I want to see how different you look. Because you are different, Courtney. We all are.

Neither of us move for a long time. We barely breathe. Her eyes stare down at her shoes, but I stare at her. I'm nearly begging her to say something. To say anything to get a reaction from me. Because that's all I feel I can do. React. 

But her voice comes soft. "What's going to happen now?" 

She wants an answer. But she's been through this already. I should be asking that question to her. Does it get easier? Because there are seven more confrontations like this to look forward to. Most of them, today. And over the next couple of weeks, as the tapes move on, even more.

"I don't know." I say. "Live with it, I guess."

At a distance behind me, muffled by a classroom wall, comes a familiar voice.

Mr. Porter.

"Clay." Courtney's voice shakes. "When did you get here, Clay?"

Why does it matter? "Why?"

She clutched a hand over her mouth and closes her eyes. In seconds, tears form at the corners and slide down her cheeks. 

Part of me feels defensive. And nervous. And furious. She has no right to do this to me. "I just got here, Courtney. I came from the post office after spending an entire night at the park. I did everything she asked me to. Why does it matter when I got here?"

"But you haven't been to class?"

"I have Mr. Porter and I can't go to his class." 

She looks down and takes a short, trembling breath, then walks towards me. She reaches out her hand and, with her fingertips gently touches my good hand. And I don't pull away. I can't because, in her eyes, I see worry. I see fear. I see confusion.

"What's going on, Courtney?"

"Clay." She slides her whole hand into mine. "Hannah's alive."

I snap my hand back, slamming my elbow into a locker and step away.

"Clay, please listen."

My whole body tenses, and I press my back into the wall of lockers and close my eyes. 

"She tried to do it, Clay, but she didn't. She didn't kill herself. That's what the teachers are telling everyone right now."

I drive my head back, crashing it into a locker. But not hard enough. 

"When her parents finally came home, she was unconscious from the pills. But they took her to a hospital and pumped her stomach and saved her." 

My knees feel ready to crumble, so I let myself slide down the lockers and then hug my knees against my chest. "Please." I say, not much more than a whisper. "Please don't lie about this to me." 

She steps beside me and barely touches my shoulder. "Clay, Hannah is alive."

I hold my legs tight, but I can't stop shivering. 

"They gave all the teachers a statement to read." She says. She sounds so frail. "I had to leave once they said she was alive. I just started crying and didn't want to hear what anyone might say."

She slowly kneels down beside me. 

"But why didn't we know?" I ask. 

"They sent her to a hospital," Courtney says. "A few hours away. It's a psychiatric hospital." 

"Why?" I ask "She's not crazy. You know that, right?" 

"I do." She says.  "I know that." 

"Then why did everyone think she died?" I can barely finish the words before my throat tightens and I swallow hard. 

"Because of the tapes, we thought she had."

"So you told people?"

"Please don't blame me, Clay. I wasn't the only one. But people started asking where she  was and when she was coming back and I couldn't take it anymore. I thought she was dead, what was I supposed to say?"

I press my forehead against my knees and pull my legs in tighter. 

She leans against the locker next to me. "You would've done the same thing if you got the tapes when we did. But you didn't have to make that choice, so please don't blame me."

I turn my head to the side and look into her eyes, to see if she's telling the truth. And she is. And I stay like that, with our eyes locked, not wanting to turn away. Not sure of the next step, when a tiny smile touches the corner or her lips. 

And I smile back. 

Her smile moves to her eyes, and then I feel it catch into my eyes, too. 

"Is she out of the hospital?" I ask.

"She is." Courtney says. "She's at home right now."

"Is she coming back?"

Her smile fades, and she closes her eyes. "I'm not sure."

The muffled voice of Mr. Porter filters out from his classroom and into the hall. "People need to know that there's somewhere they can go. Someone they can turn to."

My neck tightens and I bite down on my teeth. I stand up.

"Where are you going?" Courtney ask. 

I offer my hand, 

Again, Mr. Porter's voice creeps down the hall. "Eventually, we're all going to have to move on and get through this." 

My whole body aches with rage, and I close my eyes. I feel Courtney use my hand to help herself up, but she doesn't let go. Her other hand embraces my arm as if holding me there. Why? Does she think I'm going to race down the hall and through Mr. Porter's open door? What does she think I would do in there?

What do I want to do in there?

"Are you going to your next class?" She asks. 

I shake my head no.

"Where are you going?"

Mr. Porter keeps talking. "We need to show compassion and feel empathy toward people at all times."

"I don't know." I say. "But I can't stand here, listening to him tell people how to treat her. Or how to feel about her."

My words catch in my throat, but I need to let them out. "I already know how I feel about her."

Courtney's eyes begin to water. 

I let go of her hand and slide my arm out of her fingers. "I need to go." I say.

The closer I get to the glass doors and step outside, a blanket of warm air wrapping itself around me. 

Hannah Baker's alive and I'm going to see her. I'm going to tell her everything she needs to hear. And then, I'm going to listen.