She liked writing. She enjoyed it with every inch of her soul- she loved the ink gliding off of her pages like silk through fingers, she loved the way the letters would appear as she typed them.
She loved the way little words put together filled her mind with stories and tales, of good characters and of bad, of villains turned heroes or heroes turned villains she loved the art of words.
Writing gave her a microphone when all she had was- what? A pen? What could she possibly do with a pen? Oh, but what couldn't she do? She filled the empty notebooks of her mind with stories.
At night before she fell asleep she made up universes in her mind, it was alive. It was booming. The words overlapping one another on the page all fighting to get out and let their story be heard
She was happy. She no longer concealed herself behind the wall of anxiety and depression, she became her stories. She was the hero and the villain of her tale, but she was free. And she was free.