The ironic thing about life is that you are a different person to everyone you meet.
To some you are quiet.
To others you never stop talking.
Some remember you for your kindness
Others for the moment you walked away.
You are a villain in one story.
A hero in another.
To most you are just a passing thought, a name they once knew.

You do not exist as one person.
You will never know yourself the way others do.
You will never hear your own laughter the way someone else does.
You will never see how your absence lingers in a room you once filled.

To yourself you are simply you.
In reality you are a thousand different stories, none of which you will ever read.