I never read much, but I did enjoy reading. I certainly enjoyed the stories, as I liked being taken out of my world. The characters always made my feelings valid, they helped me understand myself better, and they helped me feel like I was real. 

It sucked knowing the characters I read about were fack. That their stories weren't real. That they never actually got their good ending. But what was I going to do? Cry about it? They were just characters, and it was just a story. A fragment of someone's life that would eventually get pushed to the back of my brain, to only be remembered whenever I am reminded of it. 

My favorite books have always been tragedies. I'm sure it's because I seek solace within their pages. The torture and the angst made my world feel tiny in comparison. It made me feel like I could move on from everything that happened to me because a fictional character had it worse. I hate pain, yet I enjoyed drowning myself in it to numb it.