For three beautiful years, Diane Masters believed she was the only child of her beloved parents. That truth was forever shattered the day they brought home a sister that she immediately desired to bounce off the floor. Needless to say, their sisterly bonds did not grow in the manner expected; it was more like competing weeds struggling for sunlight—tangled, desperate, and constantly reaching for the same limited light.

The rivalry only intensified when the family was uprooted from the West Coast and replanted in the South. In a place where tradition was a religion and silence was a virtue, Diane never quite fit into the status quo. She became an observer of a society she didn't understand, learning early on that the things people said were often the exact opposite of what they did, a lesson that would eventually define her life’s work as a Chronicler.

Imagination became her weapon to stave off boredom and isolation in a place where she simply didn't fit the pot she was expected to grow in. While a few precious souls became anchors, for most of her peers, it was a game to see who could break her first. That campaign of cruelty led to a period of crushing depression that brought her to the brink of ending her life in the eighth grade, a darkness that permanently altered her perspective on the fragility of human existence.

In the depths of that darkness, she challenged God to defy her: if He did not send her a sign, she would end her pain then and there. It is never wise to challenge a power far beyond one’s comprehension, and within the hour, a sharp knock echoed at her front door. It was the true friend she needed. Cate had gone through the trouble of tracking her down with the help of her mother when she moved back. They had met briefly in the sixth grade, moved away during the seventh, and returned during the eighth—though the timeline remains a blur after so many years—and she became her steadfast companion through the storm.

Through her, a new world opened up. She introduced her to anime via Sailor Moon, and to the JRPG Lunar: Eternal Blue, which cemented itself as one of her favorite video games to this day. Together, they also lost themselves in Tales of Crystal, a 1990s fantasy LARP board game guided entirely by an audio cassette Game Master. While it could not instantly cure the isolation, those creative outlets and that singular, life-saving friendship granted her the room to grow, explore, discover, dream, and thrive, planting the earliest seeds for stories and art she would have otherwise never known.

Some individual influences never really leave you, no matter the time and distance. Cate was one of these souls, and while I miss the friendship we once had, I am proud of the individuals we have become. I still root for her happiness and success and pray that life treats her as kindly as her presence was to me—like a soft rain that provided the support for me to grow instead of languish alone.

It is through her that I began to trust again—to know that not everyone would purposely cause me pain—and she even encouraged me that if I could not stand up for myself, then I should stand up for someone else going through that "cruel game." It was through that mindset that I became bonded to Jade (a name I called her because I was too embarrassed to ask her to repeat her name, my A.D.D.-frazled brain unable to process it properly at the time, connecting her instead to the bright green leotards she always wore in dance class). The girls in ballet class were every bit the mean-girl stereotype from a 90s rom-com. I followed the rules, did what we were supposed to do—ignore them and tell an adult. The teacher never corrected the issue.

In hindsight, I realize she herself might have been part of the problem, trying to weed out those who didn't fit her mold of what a ballerina should look or act like. Nevertheless, when I finally found my voice bold enough to challenge those girls, I fired back at the teacher that it was her own inaction that led to this. I added that if she desired to inform the owners of my outburst, we could also discuss how she failed to rectify their behavior and only chose to act when I became a voice that could not be ignored.

It was from that moment Jade and I became close. Even when time drifted us apart, I always thought of her. But time is a fickle and funny thing; she reappeared in my life as an adult, and she remains a constant treasure that I hold fervently onto.

My anchor souls also took the form of quiet guardians who defied the limitations others tried to place on me. There was Ms. Hardin, who taught me how to read and tenderly nurtured that love when a psychologist had coldly told my mother I would never be able to because of my A.D.D. diagnosis. And there was Ms. Ambrose, whose steady encouragement and belief in my voice helped cultivate a lifelong love of writing. Long before the ink of this archive ever touched a page, these women ensured I had the words to build my own world.