“Life isn’t a play, Josie. Stop trying to be a thousand different people and just be yourself.” Imogene’s little voice cracked over the phone.

I stared at the wall with my mouth open. I didn’t want to hear any of it, but Imogene was my cousin and my best friend and she wouldn’t say anything so brisk unless she thought it needed to be said.

“When are you going to stop acting and start living?” She heaved a sad sigh.

“I don’t know.” I said, rather monotonously. “I don’t think I can.”

The stage was my home. It was where I belonged; the only place that I belonged. Being one person all the time was so boring, so dull. The characters were part of me. I wanted to be Juliet, Cinderella, Dorothy; the star of the show. I loved the spotlight and it loved me.

I thought that Imogene, of all people, would understand. I only saw her for three days every two years at family reunions, but we’d been each others best friends our whole lives. Even when my family moved to Washington, Alaska, Mississippi, Connecticut, North Carolina, and about a million other places since I was two.

I didn’t mind moving, because I’d fit in anywhere simply by playing a different character. It was the only way that I could make friends. I thought Imogene understood, but she didn’t.

Why would I be the real me and have to work for friends (friends that I’d move away from in a year and would never see again) when I could just be someone else that everyone would fall in love with immediately?

Being the real me wasn’t worth the effort. No one knew me long enough to care. The thing was, I didn’t even know the real me. I couldn’t be someone that I didn’t know.

I knew Juliet. I knew she was passionate, clever, poetic, beautiful, romantic, hopeful, and ever loyal to her Romeo. I knew it because I’d read it. I couldn’t just go open up a book about me to figure out who I really was.

I’ve dated poets, skaters, jocks, goths, nerds, stoners, preps, and more than my fair share of jerks, but none of them liked me. They fell in love with Audrey Hepburn, Julie Andrews, Hayley Mills, and Lucille Ball. None of them loved Josephine Brooks.

No one loved me if I was me. If I wanted to be loved, then I couldn’t stop pretending. But, it wasn’t pretend. It was my whole life. Josephine Brooks doesn’t exist. I am Juliet, I am Cinderella, I am Dorothy; I am the star.