I scratched at my sweater as my eyes darted around the room. My hands twitched to do something, and I decided to twirl my hair, but realized it was weird. I clenched my hands into fists and pushed them into my lap, holding my eyes closed. The world around me, the noise, everything faded. I was the only thing there in that hazy universe I had created.

I planned to keep it that way… this world, this haze, was mine, and only mine. The only thing I could control.  

I was erasing the world, and relied only on myself. That was how I got through, stayed sane, kept going. I narrated my life, pretended I was the main character of  a novel. I hoped people cared about what the character… me… was doing.

To feel the adrenaline and the wonder of someone hanging to the end of their seat wondering what I would do next. To be amazed about what decisions I would make. They would laugh with me about the crappy joke or pun I would make. To understand me… to relate to me.

I was always sucked into books, eating the words, wondering what James, Cather, Ines, an endless amount of characters were doing. Siding with their feelings and dreaming of the day I would meet those fictional characters. To me their world was as real as mine. Who’s to say they weren’t reading a book about me?

I honestly would’ve preferred to be sad, at least that feeling was real. Fake smiling and happiness rubbed off on other people. It made everyone around me happy, and I felt my mother deserved a break… HE was already a handful.

But I’m running out of stories… and I fear what will happen next.   

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