Growing up, I think I made a mistake when I read stories of girls that experienced great adventures.

I gazed out of windows to catch a sight of the impish smile of a boy who never grew up.

I brandished a pen in attempt to cast spells and conjure up my greatest fantasies.

I heard tales of girls who rode dragons, led revolutions, and fell madly in love.

But my life is nothing like the stories. There’s no great adventures, no love stories with magical happily ever afters.

My pen is just a pen.

The window is shut.

I’m jealous of the girls who lived miraculous lives, while I can only read about them in books.