Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.

The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.

She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.

... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

There are two magic acts I want to pull off when I write. One is creating a feeling that when you're inside a book, you believe everything you're reading even when you know it's not true. And the second is an extension of that, which is you know it's not true, you know it's not real, but you believe it anyway. And it's that believing of the story that isn't real that attracted me to writing and storytelling in general.