My neighbor Eva was 38 and lived alone. I was her only friend, but she never spoke about her past. One day, she disappeared. I never heard from her again. 3 years later, while watching TV, I saw her. I froze in sh0ck.
This woman turned out to be a successful writer promoting her new book. She explained that she had been able to write it after fully immersing herself in the lifestyle of the “less fortunate,” spending two years living in an extremely poor neighborhood—experiencing a life completely different from the one she had known.
She had become more successful after her second book, which followed a character living an extravagant life. Wanting to explore the opposite perspective, she had chosen our neighborhood as the setting for her next novel.
To top it all off, her name wasn’t Eva—it was Emily. Now, I can’t help but wonder if any of her characters were inspired by me. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of betrayal and deception.
