There were so many levels to the unknown, from safe to dangerous to outright nebulous, scariest of all.

There was no short answer to this; like so much else, it was a long story. But what really makes any story real is knowing someone will hear it. And understand.

It wasn't about being happy or unhappy. I just didn't want to be me anymore.

Again, it occurred to me how weird it was to be permanent in a place that to everyone else was only temporary. Like I could never be sure if they were the ones who weren't real, or if I was.

Say what you will, but you’re never prepared for the surprise attack.

Whether it was a song, a person, or a story, there was a lot you couldn’t know from just an excerpt, a glance, or part of a chorus.

But it was too early to know: there were always more pages to go, more words to be written, before the story was over.