You break your own heart. Through fantasy and elevation, you create a character in a book that rebounds onto a body. You choose someone you know, someone who fits the part, and it begins to bleed together. They start to become the persona from the pages you didn’t write, and your writer’s imagination can’t tell the difference. And when they break free from your perfect paragraph, show themselves as far less than the impossible you made them, it’s like reaching the end of a long book. It took years to write, and longer to dream up, and now it closes. You don’t break my heart, I do that to myself.