I told myself I would never write a biography, and this isn’t one. It’s just a story about a girl. She’s the same height as me, and looks the same though perhaps she is slightly thinner. We have the same hair and eye colour, and skin tone. We have the same mannerisms and speech patterns, and even the same first name. But she is not me. Or, rather, I am not her. Have you ever stood in a tunnel and shouted out just to hear the echo? The echo is not the same as your voice, the pitch is off and it sounds distorted. Well, that’s what she is. She is an echo of me, a distorted version of reality.
Though our experiences are very similar, they are not the same. Instead, she is the ‘me’ I could’ve been had I made different decisions. She is a creative way for me to revisit my regrets without permanent damage to my current lifestyle. I suppose there is still enough of me in her to make you call this story autobiographical, but I would argue that you’re wrong. Some of my real life and real decisions will be stealthily woven into the story. After all, without the real lead up, how can you revisit the regret? You can’t. You have to have the truth to create fiction.