It's like you wake up and you gotta put a mask on before getting out of bed. You put on the fake smile and act happy because that's everybody's expectation. For you to be happy, to be okay, but really your not. You don't wanna tell people that though, because you don't want them worrying about you, you don't wanna become a burden. You don't want to get judged. You just hold all your feelings in and tell yourself it's going to be okay when you dont even believe that. In  true reality you dont exactly know what's wrong, you just know you're not okay, it just feels like your suffocating in your own body. Everybody that's supposedly close to you still thinks you're okay and you're not. That just convinces you that you're getting better and better at hiding your feelings so you continue to do it. Then one day you blow up, you tell everybody within your reach how you feel and they distance themselves from you, and you distance yourself from them. You stay in your room and convince yourself that you dont need human interaction. You convine yourself that your better off alone and you let the pages consume you. You let the pages be your outlet. They're always there for you when you need to vent. They're always there to absorb your tears. Even thoughthe pages can't talk back, you feel like they can. You feel like they can comfort you. You begin to need the pages. To feel lost without the pages because the pages are the only things that won't judge you, they're the only thing thats always there for you, that never judges you. That's something you can't find in a human. That's why you're okay with being alone because you'll always have the pages. It's something you cant't really explain to people because you feel like they won't understand it. They're not gonna answer and say "Oh, i get it" because they won't. No one will ever understand the relationship between a writer, her pen, and her pages.