I planned each chapter meticulously. Every plot and goal carefully detailed and dictated. It would be a masterpiece, a best-seller. It couldn’t possibly fail, not with this level of attention to detail. There was only one part of the narrative I couldn’t control. One detail I couldn’t write into the climax. The great loss that was my mother would be a bitter, unexpected tragedy, so everything else had to perfect, to allow for this huge demise. I would finish my PhD exactly as planned, on time. It would be a portfolio of meaningful, scientific, impactful work. I would find a job with equal meaning, making a difference, fixing things to make up for the one thing I couldn’t fix. I would always strive for more. Pushing myself to be better, stronger, more determined. I would marry at a reasonable age to a reasonable man, a man with good morals, a man my mother would approve of. I was ready for all of it. I was almost ready to publish when you disrupted my entire plan. I didn’t write you into my story. I didn’t have room for you. Every character had already been accounted for. I didn’t think there was room for you. What I didn’t realise at the time was, you weren’t a character I would write-in last minute. You, you were the entire story, the entire plot. Now, the story I didn’t write or plan for is the only one I care about and you and I are the main characters. And now, none of the other details, storylines or plots are planned. The only thing we can count on, is us, You and I. For the first time in my entire life I am unsure of everything, everything but you.