I walk around in a fog, thick and murky, wrapped in my own brain. You've probably noticed. I wander around my own life, staying at the edges of other people's vision. Hiding in my margins. These pages are the only things that seem real. Other than that, a fog rolls in when I sit in class and when people speak to me. They're there and I'm here, and the distance between us can't be crossed.

How strange is this? We will never meet. You won't know my face (and vice versa), but the distance isn't so great between us. My story ended before it even began for you, but I can still feel something between us even though the final chapter is written, and my fate is recorded. We don't even really exist in the same time.

I've started wondering about the future again. I haven't done that in a while; the past calls much more strongly to me. Everything that mattered is in a time I can no longer unlock, in a place I can no longer travel to. And the farther forward I go, the farther from her I am.

In the middle of the night, I wake up with this thought. My mind tastes of dreams I can't remember, of that past realm I can't even visit. Memories taste like ash and acid, pale ghosts of how things used to be. But better them than choosing to walk away from her. I owe her my memories, no matter how they slice me open. And they cut, but it's a relief too. To be able to envision her and to pretend she can still give off pure life. Pain and pleasure. The past can only give me one of those.

Unsurprising, then, that I'd try to forget the future. But curiosity has gotten the better of me because of you. Who did I entrust this with? Where did I leave this? A low shelf in the library? The drip-stained counter of a coffee shop? A trash can on garbage day?

Maybe someone (you?) pitied me and dropped it into a Lost and Found, letting it wait, forlorn, for rescue. Or perhaps you are greedily lapping up everything I spill out. I won't know, will I?

I keep going in circles: Clair and you and me. My mind is consuming itself. Past and present and future and dreams, all overlapping. The past is the only thing that feels real and solid, and everything else is shifting beneath my feet. And you. Maybe you're real.

Like I said, I get wrapped up in my mind.

(I think I'll label this. The Confessions of M., jotted on the inside corner. You've probably noticed it. You can know me by that. A single letter and the truth. It should elicit some curiosity at least. Maybe my words won't be in vain.

Are unread words in vain? Does it matter if they are read? I will ponder this and let you know.

If there is a you.)