★★★★⯪

Dear friend,

I first read The Perks of Being a Wallflower right after graduating high school in the weird liminal space between one life chapter closing and another just beginning. I got the book during my college orientation—one of those “suggested summer reads” they hand out in hopes of sparking something in us before we arrive on campus. Maybe it was because the author, Stephen Chbosky, is from Pittsburgh and we were about an hour’s drive north of the city, but it felt like someone thought this book might speak to us in a way that others wouldn’t. I didn’t have much going on that summer, so I figured, why not? I had nothing to lose. And I’m really glad I decided to read it.

From the very first letter Charlie writes, I was hooked. It felt less like reading a book and more like listening to someone I knew—someone I cared about—telling me the truth about what it’s like to grow up. The book follows Charlie through his freshman year of high school, and even though I was technically older than him when I first read it, there was something about his voice that just resonated with me. He writes about everything—befriending Sam and Patrick at a football game, his complicated relationship with Mary Elizabeth, the ups and downs of his family life—and through it all, you feel like he’s talking directly to you.

That’s one of the things I love most about the book: the intimacy of it. The way the entire story is told through the letters makes you feel like you’re being let into someone’s world in a deeply personal way. Charlie never says who he’s writing to, and the characters are often given generic names, but somehow, that makes it even more powerful. It makes the story feel like it could be about anyone.

I remember once I started reading, I couldn’t put it down. I was completely invested in the characters, the themes, the quiet heartbreaks, and the unexpected moments of joy. And I think a big reason why I connected with Charlie so deeply is because, in a lot of ways, I saw myself in him. No, I haven’t been through everything he’s been through—I’ve never blacked out at a party or had the kind of trauma he slowly uncovers by the end of the book—but I have felt like a wallflower before. I’ve been the person on the sidelines, watching rather than participating. I’ve had my share of silent crushes and fleeting friendships. And I’ve also had moments I felt like life was moving around me, not with me.

I’ve also struggled, in my own way, with mental health. Not in exactly the same way as Charlie, but enough to recognize that ache, that sense of disconnection. So when Charlie says he’s going to try to participate more, it doesn’t feel like just a hopeful line. It felt like a challenge—like he was encouraging me to do the same. And that’s stayed with me to this day.

The book’s writing style is deceptively simple, but it’s filled with so much emotion. Charlie’s voice is quiet, but observant. Honest. Vulnerable. I think that’s what makes the emotional punches land so hard—they sneak up on you. There’s a scene where the truth about his aunt comes out, and I remember just sitting there in stunned silence. It’s devastating. And yet, it’s handled with such care. Chbosky doesn’t exploit Charlie’s pain. He lets it unfold naturally, on Charlie’s terms. It’s not flashy. It’s just real.

And the relationships—God, the relationships. His friendship with Sam and Patrick feels like the kind of connection everyone hopes for in high school. It’s messy, imperfect, but full of love. I remember feeling a little envious the first time I read it, wishing I had a group like that. But I was also just so happy for Charlie—because he needed people who would see him and accept him. He needed something. His relationship with Mary Elizabeth is awkward and painful, but it’s also honest. And then there’s Bill, his English teacher, who quietly becomes one of the most important figures in Charlie’s life. I think every kid deserves a teacher like Bill—someone who sees potential and gently pushes you to grow into it.

Each time I’ve reread The Perks of Being a Wallflower, it hits a little differently. That’s the thing about a book like this—it grows on you. What stood out to me when I was 18 isn’t the same as what I notice now, but the emotional core stays just as strong. The message stays true: that even when things are hard—when people leave, when memories hurt, when you feel like you don’t belong—there’s still beauty. There’s still hope. There are still moments when you feel infinite.

That word—infinite—it’s probably the most famous line from the book, second to “We accept the love we think we deserve,” and for good reason. It perfectly captures those fleeting, perfect moments where you feel completely alive. And even if they’re rare, even if they don’t last, they’re worth everything It think that’s what Charlie is trying to remind us. That no matter what we’ve been through, we deserve to find those moments. We deserve to live.

So yeah, I guess this is my way of telling you that this book means a lot to me. And maybe,, if you give it a chance, it’ll mean something to you, too. Or maybe you’ve already read it, and this will remind you of why it mattered in the first place. Either way, I hope you find something in it that sticks. I hope it reminds you to feel things deeply, to be kind to yourself, and to participate in your own life.

Love always,
Jordan

P.S. — I also watched the movie version not long after finishing the book, and it hit me in a different but equally emotional way. It’s rare that a film captures the spirit of its source so faithfully, but this one really did. If you’re curious, I wrote about it too—you can read that here. It felt like a continuation of the same letter Charlie was writing—only this time, with images, music, and silence that said as much as words ever could.