I grew up sick.⁣ ⁣ Let me clarify.⁣ ⁣ I grew up believing that real love stories include a martyr or demand great sacrifice to be worthy.⁣ ⁣ Because of that, I believed it, because I made myself believe it, and I bred the most masochistic of romantic hearts, which resulted in my illness.⁣ ⁣ When I lived this story, my own twisted fairy tale, it was unbeknownst to me at the time because I was young and naïve. I gave into temptation and fed the beating beast, which grew thirstier with every slash, every strike, every blow.⁣ ⁣ Triple Falls wasn’t at all what it seemed, nor were the men that swept me under their wing. But in order to keep them, I had to be in on their secrets.⁣ ⁣ Secrets that cost us everything to keep.⁣ ⁣ That’s the novelty of fiction versus reality. You can’t re-live your own love story, because by the time you’ve realized you’re living it, it’s over. At least that was the case for me and the men I trusted my foolish heart to.⁣ ⁣ Looking back, I’m convinced I willed my story into existence due to my illness.⁣ ⁣ And all were punished.