On the outside I probably looked bored, I thanked myself for my ability to hide my emotions so well. I’ve always been able to clear my face and sit calmly when I need to. And hide, I’ve always been good at finding the one shadow in any room and disappearing inside of it. Maybe that’s why I liked my corner of the Café so much, because it’s a perfect place to just disappear into for a few hours.

From beside Lappie my un-smart phone started to vibrate, the alarm I’d set was going off. I had been in Le Petit Café for a few hours already; I always set an alarm to help me keep track of time. Otherwise, I would be in there all day. After I shut the alarm and set it back down, I took another sip of my pink lemonade. That was another thing I loved about the Café, not only its coffee drinks were sensational.

I pushed my glasses farther up my nose and started to check my Twitter, something I should really do more often. Seeing the reaction of my fans whenever I responded to them was something I would never get used to. Over the Internet I could be funny, charming, crazy, or sweet. In person, I had trouble enough finding words to say to them. It was as if I would just forget the entire English language, especially if it was one of my few boy fans.

Everyone, no matter what, everyone deserves to have one secret that they shouldn’t have to tell anyone. Just one flaw, one story, one habit that’s all to themselves. Unfortunately for me, my one thing isn’t easily hidden. I never expected to become a famous writer, it was always my dream, but I never thought I’d ever reach it. There’s a reason why I keep myself inconspicuous, why I wear sweatpants and glasses everywhere, I don’t possess confidence. Not even the tiniest shred. I cower behind my stacks of books at signings, I pretend to have sore throats when they want an interview, I reply to my fans over the Internet where I’m invincible. It’s the one of the many things I wish I could change about myself, I’d love to be confident and talk to people, mingle and such. But, I just… can’t.

It’s humanly impossible. One of the infinite reasons why I love to write is because I can be the person I wish I was, and all it takes is a keyboard and some time. As Stephen Hawking once said, “Quiet people have the loudest minds.” No one’s ever said it better.

“Oh, my, gawd!” Some girl squealed from behind me, I started to silently chant ’Please don’t be about me, Please don’t be about me.’ But no, I’m not that lucky.

“You’re… you’re…” she stuttered by me, unable to speak. I don’t know why she was spazzing, I’m not some hot British/ Irish boy band member, I’m a writer. And apparently, her favorite. “You’re ah-mazing, omigawd, sign my copy of ‘Take A Trip To Paris’?”

I tried to smile warmly, taking the worn out copy of my second book into my hand and finding a sharpie I kept with me. The girl could not maintain her excitement, jumping around like a kangaroo on crack as she waited.

I opened up the familiar image of the cover, one of my favorites. It was a black and white picture of the Eiffel tower, a kissing couple beneath it. Towards the top written in white swirled letters, was my name. 'By, Adelaide Maddox’ it read, something I wonder if I’ll ever get used to seeing. I turned the first few pages to the dedication page; I dedicated three of my books to the same person. My mom. I didn’t let my eyes linger on the words, quickly scribbling down my infamous signature with a little message to the girl, asking for her name.

“It’s Amy. Oh my gawd, I can’t believe it’s you! You’re my favorite author ever! And you’re so young!” I smiled lightly at her comment, handing the copy back to her. That was another record-setting thing about me, the fact that I’m only 21. My first novel was published just after I turned 17, shocking everyone in my high school. People knew I was always scribbling things in my notebook, but nothing that substantial. From there, things just blew up. I wrote constantly and pumped out more books faster than my editor could edit them.

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