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One

London, 2017

I’irl you think you know, but you can’t remember where from

Lying is what I do for a living It’s what I’ sonize in theout beneath the made-up face of a made-up person Another character, another story, another lie I look away, ready to leave her behind for the night, stopping briefly to stare at what is written on the dressing room door:

AIMEE SINCLAIR

My naed it

Perhaps because, deep down, I always knew that our e would only last until life did us part I remind myself that my name only defines me if I allow it to It is ed in a certain order; littleto rearrange those letters into so else Someone else A new na

Knowing a person’s na a person

I think we broke us last night

Sometimes it’s the people who love us the most that hurt us the hardest; because they can

He hurt me

We’ve s have to be broken in order to fix them

I hurt him back

I check that I’ve re, the way other people check for a purse or keys Ti on set between fil Ever since I was a child, I have preferred to inhabit the fictional lives of others, hiding in stories that have happier endings than otten anything, I walk away, back to who and what and where I came from

Soht

I’ve tried so hard to pretend that it didn’t, struggled to rearrange the memories, but I can still hear his hate-filled words, still feel his hands around my neck, and still see the expression I’ve never seen his face wear before

I can still fix this I can fix us

The lies we tell ourselves are always the erous

It was a fight, that’s all Everybody who has ever loved has also fought

I walk down the fa roohts or fears too far behind My steps see the act of going ho there