For as long as I can remember, I’ve been in love.

Not with a real person, of course. But with the kind of love you read about in books—the slow burns, the grand gestures, the undeniable meant-to-be. The kind that always, always ends with a happily ever after.

Then, last Fourth of July, while I was lost in another love story, I missed something real.

My last chance to talk to Nanna. My last chance to hug her, to hear her voice, to say goodbye. She was just a few yards away, and I never even looked up.

That was the moment I realized: I’ve been living in stories instead of my own life.

So, I made a promise to myself. No more hiding. No more waiting for something magical to happen. I was going to start living—for real this time.

But here’s what nobody tells you: life doesn’t come with a roadmap. There’s no chapter to skip ahead to when things get hard, no neatly wrapped-up ending that makes everything suddenly make sense.

Now, partway through the year, I’m realizing just how much I’ve missed. While I was busy falling for fictional guys, the girls around me were actually dating them. Some have kissed. Some have done… other things.

And me? I wouldn’t even know where to start.

But admitting that? Letting people see how far behind I feel? Not an option.

So I fake it. I nod along, laugh when I’m supposed to, pretend like I know what I’m doing. Meanwhile, my anxiety is spiraling, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never catch up.