Black Ink and Parchment

They say truth is stranger than fiction—but fiction has always been more appealing.

There’s something comforting about disappearing into a story. A place where everything is heightened, meaningful, dramatic. Where even the chaos feels intentional. We turn to books for escape, but sometimes it’s hard not to wonder what it would look like if life actually worked the way literature insists it does.

If that were the case, my life would be unrecognizable.

I’d be caught in a love triangle I never asked for, torn between the boy who has always been there and a stranger who seems to know me better than I know myself.

Somewhere, a prince would have seen me once and decided that was enough to spend a lifetime searching. Titles, expectations, entire futures would be discarded in my name.

I’d make reckless deals with dangerous things and somehow walk away untouched. I’d take a job as a nanny, housemaid, dog walker and still become the center of someone else’s world.

 A distant relative I’ve never heard of would leave me a house filled with secrets, the kind that whisper at night and refuse to stay buried.

I’d leave home for something bigger, lose it all just as quickly, and return as if that was always the point.

Somehow, I’d solve mysteries between sips of tea that never go cold.

 I’d stumble into another world entirely and be expected to save it.

I’d be both powerful and effortless able to rebuild myself in an hour, master skills I’ve never practiced, and carry grace even in my most awkward moments.

Love would be intense, complicated, and just a little destructive. The kind that pulls other people into it without warning. Danger would always be close, but never quite enough to end the story. Even the secrets, betrayal, obsession would circle back into something meaningful.

In stories, nothing is wasted. Every heartbreak builds toward something. Every coincidence means something. Real life doesn’t always offer that kind of clarity.

Maybe because somewhere, someone is living something extraordinary—something worth writing down. Maybe those moments, scattered across different lives, become the stories we escape into. The ones that let us step into something bigger, without having to carry the weight of it ourselves.

I wouldn’t mind a little fiction slipping into reality every now and then. But I think I’m okay not living inside it.

Some worlds are better visited than survived.