They ask, sometimes, if I’m lonely. I am, in the way one misses an island at low tide. But I trade loneliness for clarity. Solitude gives me time to remember who I am beyond the table, beyond the song, beyond the name stitched onto tickets and posters. I remember the child who loved to build tiny worlds from odds and ends — that child keeps me stubbornly humane.
Why is it better from my perspective? Because it strips away the clinical distance of a third-person narrator. It forces you to confront the visceral reality of fluid identity.
"You won't."
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