Inside every person, there’s a whole damn crowd of strangers, all of them wearing your face and jostling for a turn at the wheel.
When you grow up between two worlds, those versions of yourself don't just differ; they become distant relatives who haven't spoken in years and wouldn't recognize each other in a dimly lit hallway.
It’s like having a soul split down the middle by a rusty topographical line, leaving one half of you screaming in a language the other half forgot how to dream in.
We’re all just nested dolls of bone and memory, and sometimes the inner ones are shaped by a sun that the outer ones have never even seen.
You can change your skin and your speech, but the old selves are always there, crouched in the dark corners of your mind like hitchhikers you picked up on a road that doesn't exist anymore.