It's not what our eyes shows us, It's what we want to see.

When Fancy still didn't answer, he took her hand, and with his red paintbrush, he wrote 'please' into her palm.

Wanna see the rest of my happy place?

Tell me a truth, Senna."
"I don't know how," I breath.
"Then tell me a lie."
"I don't love you," I say. I sink beneath the weight of it all.
Isaac stirs behind me, and then he is leaning over me, his elbows on either side of my head.
"The truth is for the mind," he says. "Lies are for the heart. So let's just keep lying.

That's why writers write—to say things loudly with ink. To give feet to thoughts; to make quiet, still feelings loudly heard.

I do know you, Fancy. All about you. The problem is, you don’t know about me.