It isn't L.M. Montgomery's fault, really--I should really blame my mother. My discovery of Anne of Green Gables began when I was 8 and my mother started reading it out loud to my sister (who hated it). I lapped it up like a stray kitten who is gifted a saucer of milk. I never knew that books could be filled with such rich descriptions and romance, filling your head with vivid pictures that felt like dreams. Like every other little girl who reads about "Anne with an e," I imagined visiting Prince Edward Island, taking a horse-drawn wagon through the White Way of Delight, and living in a farmhouse filled with apple blossoms. I fell in love with the idea of seeing the world as Anne sees it: every mistake is an adventure, every acquaintance is a yet-to-be-discovered kindred spirit, and every forest is a fantasy. Anne is a lythe, fairytale creature who danced in the clouds and was loved by all who met her, from the sour old maid to the shy bachelor.

Therein lies the problem. I am nothing like Anne of Green Gables. No matter how hard I tried, I could not find the magical lens through which she was able to see the world. I trudged through my life, making the best grades, getting lost in my imagination, and making the occasional careless mistake (just like Anne). I starved myself to attain her waspish proportions and dyed my hair red. And yet, in spite of my fervent desire and herculean efforts to be just like her, life continues to be dull and lusterless. The biggest lie that Anne taught me was that someone will fall in love with you and stick with you, no matter how you treat him. There are no men like Gilbert Blythe in the world, and still I continue to hold out hope that if only I could emulate Anne enough, I will find him.

Sometimes, I envy those who never read about an orphan with red (auburn, to her friends) hair and her unattainable journey through life. What would it be like to never feel guilty for failing to live up to the unrealistic expectations built on printed words and flowery paragraphs? To fall in love and not compare your paramour to a man who has never existed, and who was written by a woman? I guess I'll never know. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to come across a Gilbert Blythe one day. Then again, he wouldn't want me--I'm no Anne Shirley.

"It's the end of the world as we know it," my phone cheerfully sings to me at 7AM sharp, as it does every day. With a groan I grab my phone and turn off the alarm, then open up my Instagram as I slowly wake up. I scroll through photos, cringing at one my roommate Luna posted last night that I don't remember taking. I look like a hot mess--my eyes are hooded and my mouth is open in that half-smile that my drunk alter ego thinks is incredibly hot. "Whatever," I say out loud as I throw off my covers and stumble to the dark bathroom. There's no window in my tiny bathroom, but I don't mind. Since I turned 30, I'm not in a huge rush to see my face, with its rapidly advancing crow's feet and fine lines, first thing in the morning. I rinse off my face and blindly grab for my toothbrush before I flip on the light. I stick my toothpaste-laden toothbrush in my mouth, glance in the mirror and let out a yelp, spewing suds all over the place.

“Where’s my face?” I say, reaching out to touch the mirror. I feel a vice-like pressure grip my chest and my breathing quickens as my brain tries to come up with a logical explanation. Maybe I’m still drunk. Did someone slip me something last night? Am I a ghost? That doesn’t make sense—ghosts aren’t invisible to themselves. Maybe my latent schizophrenia gene is finally manifesting and I’ve lost it completely.

I take one hand and put it over where I think my arm is and I still feel solid and real, but there’s nothing there. I’m waving my toothbrush through the air like a magic wand. I have no idea what to do next and I feel myself going into something like shock when I hear a knock at the door. “Tess? You up?” Luna calls through the door. We usually walk to work together, but Luna hates being late so she has started to tentatively ascertain if I wake up on time. I freeze, mind racing with possibilities. For lack of a better plan, I whip the door open to see if she can see me. She looks confused and says again, “Tess? Where are you? What’s going on?” I reach out and touch her and she screams, pushing me down the floor. I let out a humph and groan. “I’m right here, Luna! I’m invisible.”

Luna sinks to the floor silently, her huge eyes wide as saucers. Then in a timid voice, she says two words I don’t expect to hear: “It worked.”