I am a loner. I figured that out when I was 14 and moved out of town and my only friends were the characters of Twilight. I remember locking myself in my tiny bedroom and reading so much that my eyes would burn. I probably read all the juvenile books that were dropped that year. As soon as I finished one, I would open another. and another, and another. My stomach would cry for food, but the need to not feel alone was stronger than my hungry, so I would turn the page. I wouldn't stop until I felt like I had enough. It was almost like a drug. I needed to live inside those books because I thought that by doing it, I wouldn't need to create my own story. I was addicted to someone's else imagination and that wasn't ok.

As I grew older, I realized that my passion for books came from my desire to imagine a life different than the one I had. It was never because I loved to read. It was always because I needed to pretend I was someone else to feel good about myself. Reading gave me confidence, so I started writing. I brought a journal, and to every book I read, I wrote a chapter. That became my routine until, one day, writing turned out to be so much more than just a hobby. Someone hurt me, I wrote about it. Someone helped me, I wrote about it. Those papers dried so many of my tears. Those pages held so many of my secrets. I finished high school knowing I wanted to be a writer, but fearing what type of future I would have, so I listened to all the other voices around me except for mine.

I came to the United States and chose psychology as my major. On my sophomore year, I decided that I wanted to get a minor in mass communication. On my junior year, I found myself. I switched my major with my minor. I decided that I was going to be whoever I wanted to be. On May 7 of 2016, this loner graduated from college at the age of 22. Today, five months later, I am standing in front of a computer in my bedroom in California writing about writing.

Why?

Because my life isn't and never were as private as I wanted it to be, and I'm tired of people saying I should talk more, I should open up more, I should give more of myself to people no matter how afraid I am of them going away; but the truth is: they do go away. And I remain here, as an open book, with all of these scars showing, but no one able to read them.

I don't talk. I can't talk. It won't come out. But you, you can listen. You're the only one who can listen, but you never pay attention. You want to listen, but I can't speak so I show you. I show you, but you don't see. You can't see because you're blind and I can't speak because I'm mute. How will we work out? How will I ever work out? How will I ever find what I'm looking for if I can't tell you you're what I'm looking for?

Sometimes I wish writing didn't mean as much to me as it does, so maybe this pain would never be stuck inside my words waiting for someone able to read them. Maybe if I could speak instead of write, I wouldn't feel like no one understands me because it would be so much easier for them to listen with their ears if I was able to speak with my mouth. But I don't. I speak through my writing, but they don't listen with their hearts.

I write about writing, but then I always end up writing about us. Why can't you read it?