Her very best friend had told her she was insane after their very brief conversation. Well, Wella had concluded something of her own—she didn’t understand.

She’d read the same book over multiple times, and every single page she turned, was like opening up a piece of her heart, the parts of it that had been closed off for so long. There was something so horribly magical about finding the one she’d been waiting for for so long, within the spell-casting, strikingly vivid land of a world carved from the many words of a single person’s imagination. Vivviane would never understand that, not to the extend Wella did.

Why had her friend referred to her as the opposite of sane? Number one, because she was, but she already knew that. And she was fine with knowing that as long as Vivviane was fine with realizing she didn’t understand. Even if she didn’t, even if she never would, the least she could do was pretend she did to make Wella feel a little better. Number two, because all the love Wella would forever need, was her in favorite book. In her mind, why go out there and find love, when she could physically hold it, and replay every single moment? She could mark off every line she held dear, and never ever forget it.

Oh, I suppose there was a third thing, though it needs little to no emphasis—she was hopelessly delusional. In fact, her love of the book, the tale, the charming boy within, had grown into a destructive obsession. Her friends knew so, but this was never about them. It was about _her. _The girl who, at a young age, was convinced she could never find her happily ever after. Since real life was so horribly…real, why not only live in it when she really had no other choice? Why not leave that life behind, to one that fully met her expectations?

At first it wasn’t so bad. Every book girl fawned over some charming lad in a made-up universe. No, it wasn’t bad at all. Things got odd when Wella decided to write her _own _story. She spent _hours—days, weeks_ in her room, fully secluded from reality, quietly and carefully creating her own. One might think, what’s so bad about writing a story?

Little by little, Wella grew more clinically insane. Her story revolved around a very handsome young man, by the name Doroh, a mysterious prince with a lock around his heart, yet to be opened by his one true love—and also from her favorite book, the one she read over and over again, _Where Love and Silver Clash. _

Diaries, notebooks, files full of conversations between the two to of them…

Written by _her. _And the more she wrote, the more she convinced herself they were real. She wanted that perfect love so badly, that she drove herself crazy. She drove her friends away. She began to live solely for a prince that never existed.

Until one day it was all too much.

When her family went to box up her things, that was when they discovered the notebooks. The more they read, the more heartbreaking the conversations between Wella and Doroh became. She opened up to him about so much, so much no one around her knew. Apparently, when she had read _Where Love and Silver Clash _for the very first time, she had felt seen, finally heard by Doroh, a man of many haunting secrets. They shared an uncanny likeness.

Mentally, Wella was dying. She opened up to Doroh about much. The very last conversation between the two was of Doroh saying his final farewell. He had stated his life was simply too much to endure any further, even with her in it. But Wella just coudn’t live without him. She refused. And so they both died that day.

Imagine imagining so fiercely that that very imagination becomes your downfall?

What a great, big trick the mind can be…