Shatter-Me-PDF-Shatter-Me-Series-Shatter-Me-Shatter-Me-1-Tahereh-Mafi (1)

“I’m sorry—” I backpedal. “I don’t mean to pry—I shouldn’t
have asked—”
“It’s okay,” he cuts me off. “I just think it’s kind of stupid.”
He laughs a short, hard laugh. “Of all the things I should be
able to do,” he sighs. “At least you can do something
interesting.”
I stop walking, stunned. Horrified. “You think this is a
competition? To see which magic trick is more twisted? To
see who can inflict the most pain?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I don’t think it’s interesting to be able to kill someone by
accident. I don’t think it’s interesting to be afraid to touch a
living thing.”
His jaw is tense. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . . I wish I
were more useful. That’s all.”
I cross my arms. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t
want to.”
He rolls his eyes. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just—
I’m very . . . flexible,” he says.
It takes me a moment to process his admission. “Like—you
can bend yourself into a pretzel?”
“Sure. Or stretch myself if I need to.”
I’m gawking so openly I must be embarrassing myself.
“Can I see?”
He bites his lip. Readjusts his glasses. Looks both ways
down the empty hall. And loops one arm around his waist.
Twice.
I’m gaping like a dead fish. “Wow.”
“It’s stupid,” he grumbles. “And useless.”
“Are you insane?” I lean back to look at him. “That’s
incredible.”
But his arm is back to normal and he’s walking away
again. I have to run to catch up.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I try to tell him. “It’s
nothing to be ashamed of.” But he’s not listening and I’m
wondering when I became a motivational speaker. When I