I’m writing a book 

“There are pieces of me everywhere I’ve been. Little specs of Chantier, or Bonnie; whomever I introduced myself as. But she’s lingering in the corners of every single building entered, classroom, and bed slept on. She’s there. No one can say she doesn’t exist. There is no possible way for her to die. She’s present, everywhere. In some places, the energy projected was goofy, outgoing, loquacious, in others, sullen and sad… Confused, perhaps? But I exist. She exists. And for some odd reason, those people she’s met are with her. They pop up in her dreams or in her head when she’s on the bus headed to work. They’re in her diaries. Some entries remind her how awful those places she gave herself to were. And others, well, they kept her sane. The Girl that No One Knew, she exists. They did not know it, but she gave them little pieces of herself, specs of laughter and joy… Pain and heartaches…. She left behind all that she knew, and that was the girl she thought she was.”  
A draft passage from my book entitled “The Girl That No One Knew” 


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