Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.

Dear Hazel Grace,

You told me once that the universe wants to be noticed. But I think the universe noticed you first. It noticed your sharp wit, your quiet courage, and that stubborn streak that refused to let you be defined by cancer. It noticed your love for a book that mirrored your own unfinished life, and it noticed the way you found Augustus Waters—a boy who wasn’t afraid to call a grenade beautiful.

You didn’t think he’d stick around after you warned him about the collateral damage. But Augustus never did things halfway. He threw metaphors around like poetry and loved you with a recklessness that wasn’t careless, but deliberate. He gave you infinity within the numbered days, and even though the ending was cruel, I know you wouldn’t trade those moments for anything.

I still think about the way he looked at you, like you were the brightest constellation in a starless sky. He didn’t see a girl defined by oxygen tanks and tubes; he saw Hazel Grace Lancaster, lover of words, fighter of battles, and breaker of hearts.

When he told you his fear of oblivion—that he wanted to be remembered, to live a life that mattered—you didn’t try to fix him. You just let him be, and that was enough. In the end, you gave him something even the universe couldn’t—a love story worth writing about, worth living for.

You taught us that pain demands to be felt, but love—oh, love—demands to be remembered.

So, Hazel Grace, here’s to you. For being a star the universe noticed, and for letting us notice you too.