It’s 10pm and I’m scrolling through my phone hoping for whatever dopamine hit we get from these stupid devices. I wish I had a cheesy romance novel queued up on my Kindle, but I’m too lazy to charge it and I really should be going to bed anyway—not to mention working on my own writing, instead of escaping into someone else’s.
The thing is, when I miss my old life, I feel the need to try on someone else’s story. Even just for a few chapters.
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