I am NOT the hero of this story.
In fact, if my mother knew the path I was walking, she’d be filled with a familiar disdain. But some beds are made to be lied in, no matter how cold they get.
You must understand what it feels like to be lonely when you’re in a crowded room. That isolation. The sense that no one sees the real you. The years pass without regard, and nothing seems to quell this restlessness. It only festers. So, I had the brilliant idea of finding a pen pal. Hear me out - or don’t. I guess I didn’t care back then either.
