At 22, I crept through the house, pushed open bedroom doors and curled up in the empty, unmade beds that didn’t belong to me. I didn’t know who I was. I thought I could try the lives of others.
When I was little, my brother smirked at me: I had talked in my sleep. What had I said? He wouldn’t tell me. I was angry because there have always been things about me that I never want anyone to know. Real things. The things I tell you are all fictions. Everything you know about me, I’ve stolen from other people.