someone wrote a story for me. no. someone wrote the story of his past for me. a certain time in his past. because somehow he knows me. and somehow i know him. his story made me feel so weak and vulnerable and more aware of how many of us are all alone even when surrounded by loved ones. though people think they know me, they dont. ive always covered myself with other qualities and attributes that make up a superficial layer. my costume for the masses. my first instinct was to run, as usual. to fight that weakness by building a more impenetrable costume. but this time i couldnt. i was trapped.
i think his story made me feel weak because it ripped those layers off and i was left standing exposed. i stood there wide open.
but so did he.
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