Who?

Even from far away, I can tell his heart is broken. It doesn't take much for him to tell. "She's dating someone else," he says. It was a show-mance. "That's the problem with actors," he spits, almost disgustedly, "they get confused with what's their role, and what's real life." His mouth twitches up into a sad, half-smile. "No offense."

Terrifyingly, I suddenly see the same in myself. When I'm sad, I'm not me. I'm Eponine, self-pityingly lonesome. When I'm whiny, I'm Bloody Mary, grabby and demanding. More often then not, I'm Winifred, loud, insane, and obnoxious. I do not know if I give them bits of myself, bringing them to life, or if I learn from them. I have no idea who I am. I have no idea who anyone is. In theater, lines are blurred. We respond to our character names, and our real names fade, left behind in the corners of the dressing rooms. We steal quotes, lines from the stage for real life, as though we were always performing .

I pull him back for a hug, and selfishly, it's more for my comfort then his, and we mutually curse humanity as a whole. "People suck," He says.