Fiction

 

She loved a particular author and had read everything they’d ever written.

Once, she’d read some reviews and been surprised. “Every book is like the others, save the landscape and names of the characters. Formulaic drivel.” And that was the nice one.

That had hurt her feelings as if she’d penned the novels herself. Even after going over the plots of them and realizing that they were formulaic, her love still stood strong.

Her own life was unpredictable, messy, and sometimes dangerous.

She needed the assurance that stories made sense and people lived happily ever after, or she’d go insane.