When you were a little girl watching cartoons, you believed everything they told you. Everything will be okay if you just believe in yourself, you can fix anything with the power of love, and your personal favorite, just be yourself, nothing else matters. A few years later, you knew better. It was a story, like the adventures you read about and the mysteries you solved before the big reveal. Beautiful but fictional. Believing in yourself wasn’t going to make you prettier or more popular, your love was restricted to the things that didn’t have to love you back, and being yourself was the most excruciatingly painful feeling in the world. Life wasn’t like the movies, and you had no plan because you’d picked up a novel instead of a guidebook. Somehow you got through it simply because you had to. You couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel, but your fear of the dark was enough to keep you moving and when you finally stumbled out of that tunnel with leaves in your hair, dirt on your ch...
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