I hate reading fiction because it messes with my head in the most beautiful, dangerous ways.

One minute I’m following a character through a city that doesn’t exist, and the next, I’m looking at the people around me like they’re the story.

I start reading everyone like a book…

their eyes, their pauses, their nervous habits are like margin notes.

I wonder about all the chapters I missed.

What was written before I met them?

What plot twists shaped them?

Which parts do they skim over when they talk about themselves?

And the worst part?

I get this quiet hope that maybe, if I stick around long enough,

they’ll hand me a page I’ve never seen before.

Or maybe they won’t.

Maybe that’s the heartbreak—

knowing there are entire volumes I’ll never get to read.

So yeah, I hate fiction.

Because it makes real life feel like it’s just a story I haven’t finished yet.