I heard it said once that every human is a story with skin. If this is true, paragraphs would be etched in the scars on my wrists. Whole chapters could be written about the way my heart pounds when I startle awake. And every single one of my tears could fill a book. But stories, with all their promise, only leave room for disappointment. I don't have room for that anymore. I left it all-the hope, the love, the promise-back in my old life with the ghosts I'd rather forget: Jude. Emma. Pacey. Kevin. This is how I dare to move forward and to believe in a beginning. I let go of the old. I just grab the new and run. I don't wait around anymore. I can't. Waiting leaves room for the voices. Somewhere between water and sky, I'll find a way to burn these voices to the ground.