My encounter with you does not grow me. You, a child with a narrative that expels mine. I have no choice but to bundle your constructed story into a box to stop you from putting borders around my dreaming. I am not yet dead. My story lives and breathes. Not for mortgage, not for sale. Go, craft your own story if it pleases you. One day the circle will close, the broken lines will vanish. Maybe not in our lifetime. For now, I choose to shoulder a vessel to share with ‘the other’. I feel that you hardly know me. I am ‘the other’. My life entails walking in between-ness, between borders.