When a child is born, they are like the first pristine page of a book—untouched, filled with infinite possibility. A name is given, like the title of a story yet to be written. In my case, that name was Elissa Day Lane. And just like a book, that child breathes in the world, absorbing every touch, every whispered word, every moment of love and warmth.

At first, we believe the world is as gentle as the hands that held us, as kind as the voices that soothed us to sleep. But soon, we step beyond that safe cocoon, and reality introduces itself—not always with kindness, not always with warmth. We learn that innocence is fragile, that kindness can be twisted, that to feel deeply is both a gift and a vulnerability. Some will cradle your heart in their hands; others will laugh at its tenderness.

I was one of those children who felt too much. I learned, young, that emotions are sacred things, and not everyone deserves to hold them. So I kept them close. I wrote them down, only to tear them apart. Not because they weren’t worth keeping, but because the act of writing was enough—it was proof that I existed, that my thoughts were real, even if no one else would ever read them.

And so, I wrote. In childhood. In college. In stolen moments between responsibilities. My words became my confessions, my sanctuary, my secret. I locked them away, not out of shame, but out of protection—passwords on my phone, notes hidden away like delicate pieces of myself. A book was always a dream, but I whispered to myself, Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will begin. But tomorrow, as we all know, is a master of deception.

This time was different.

This book was not planned. It was not carefully outlined, nor strategically crafted. It was born from a feeling, from a moment that burned too brightly to ignore. I do not believe in fairy tales, yet life handed me something that felt almost scripted, a story too raw, too real, too consuming to be kept locked away.

So, I let it exist. Untamed. Unapologetic. Free.

There are no names, no faces, no ages in this story—because it is not just mine. It is yours. A reflection of longing, of fleeting desire, of unspoken truths and unfulfilled fantasies. It is reality and illusion, pleasure and pain, acceptance and denial.

Perhaps, as you turn these pages, you will find something of yourself hidden between the words. A forgotten yearning. A moment that once left your skin burning and your heart racing. A truth you never dared to say aloud.

I do not ask you to simply read this book. I ask you to feel it. To surrender to it. To let it awaken something inside you that perhaps you, too, have kept hidden away.

And when you reach the final page, I hope you will not only understand this story—I hope you will see yourself within it.

Because, after all, isn’t that the most beautiful thing about words?

They belong to all of us.