Because I’m none of those things. And it’s so, so hard to remember that when the internet just keeps echoing it back to you.

But up here there are no echoes and no trolls, and I am just a girl wearing her heart on her sleeve, staring at the sky, asking the universe—just for a moment—to be enough.

I orient myself and point to one of the brighter stars. “See, there he is. The Dog Star. And there’s Mars over there. And over here…” I spin around, not really noticing where I’m going—

—and collide with Harper.

She’s smiling, and looking up at the sky, too. “You know, most normal people don’t go looking up at the sky.”

“I never claimed to be normal,” I reply.

In the nighttime air, with buildings towering around us, thirty stories up and far above car horns and gossip and chatter, I look down—just briefly—to her, and she’s looking at me. In the darkness, her eyes look like pools of ink I could dip a pen into and write a ballad about the way she’s looking at me. My heart trembles as she takes my hand and laces her brown fingers through my pale ones.

“I think I finally see you, Imogen Lovelace,” she says.

It’s important to see that people like us exist. Her voice echoes in my head, along with Imogen’s.

But Princess Amara is dead, and she isn’t coming back.

Not even if I want her to.

And I don’t.

Do I?

I don’t have to wear that galaxy-glitter dress that pinches me under the arms. I don’t have to run in heels or dye my hair that god-awful red. Or actively ignore most social media because of the trolls. I don’t have to eat an inedible catered salad. I don’t have to listen to Dare complain about his uniform not being the right shade of blue. Or watch Amon act out a fight scene and stub his toe on a prop.

And I probably won’t meet Harper at another con. As Imogen, or as myself.

It was an accident that I met her here.

Almost impossible—

Impossible.

Things that would never happen in real life. A fangirl with wicked stepsisters and the actor she despises falling in love. A fashion designer and Geekerella’s stepsister finding each other. Colliding with your look-alike in a con bathroom at the edge of the world and falling for her internet friend.

Impossible.

I’m not Imogen Lovelace, I want to tell her, and now is the perfect time, when the stars are bright and the sky is wide, but the words catch on my tongue as I remember all those Instagram comments. The Twitter notifications.

What if she’s one of them?