Clare looked down at the magazine in her hand, her story, her words. Anyone who really knew her would see through the fiction printed here to the truth—the truth that she obviously had not kept hidden. Beneath the changed names and slightly different plot events, this story was undeniably about her and Adam. How many people would be able to see that? Her mother and Eileen, yes. And maybe any one of her closer high school friends—Kaylee would know. Of course, how many of those people actually read the Atlantic Monthly? How many people in all of Casper? In all of Wyoming? The library might, might, have a subscription. Also, there was the fact that she published under her pseudonym—although taking Adam’s last name was hardly a Sherlock case to work out. Still, it was most likely that if she simply did not share, with anyone, that she had published this story, no one would ever know.

Not even the people here in her New York life.

Would I really prefer obscurity? Because what if she kept it secret? What if there was no celebration, no frame, no acknowledgment beyond this small moment here. Just her, her story, and two free copies. She would keep writing, like always. Having spent almost her whole life with a pen in her hand, stopping wasn’t something she could even imagine. But the publishing, this new thing, the exposure—she could stop that right now if she wanted. It was as simple as keeping all her words in her own journals. She didn’t have to share any of it, she realized.

Clare stopped short. Something about those thoughts filled her with regret.

Clare laid the magazine on the table and stood up with her keys in hand, ready to head down to the corner liquor store. She grabbed her purse off the stool, where she’d absently tossed it yesterday, and opened the front door. Her feet moved rapid-fire, like a quick-step dancer, down the three stories of stairs that led to the building’s front entrance.

Outside her building, on the sidewalk at the bottom of the concrete steps, her hand gripped the cold metal handrail. All around her people went about their own business, walking, crossing the street, getting out of a cab, carrying their dog, begging for change, running, drinking coffee, buying a sandwich, holding hands. Right in front of her, a woman rummaged through her purse looking for something. Three stoops over, a small child with a head full of black curls was crying in her father’s arm.

They were nobody to Clare.

She was nobody to them.