it's so easy to set aside my problems and pretend they're fiction for a moment. to act like they aren't mine any more than these characters live. sure, i still ache with dread and still wake up exhausted, but for a little bit, it isn't real.

it's so easy to hand it over to people i've stitched with words.

i can fake it. i'm alright. i'm not drowning. and i've certainly not brought any of this upon myself.

no, not at all. i only feel these things because i'm an empathetic person who feeds off of her characters- when in reality, it's the other way around be.

i may write them happy endings, but I can't see my own.  

a/n 

...if that makes sense