Words. Words for breakfast, words for lunch, words for dinner. My eyes were always catching them mid-page, drinking them in with all the might a 12 year old could muster up. A book was my constant companion, my shoulder to lean on when my surroundings were too constant. Despite its ever changing appearance, what with different spines and creators, the familiar weight of a novel in the crook of my arm traveled with me. Family event? That surely calls for a book, because who needs socializing? Needless to say, books became so much apart of me that some may have confused it for another appendage. All my relatives were convinced I was some brainiac in the making, constantly showering my parents in praise for raising such an intelligent daughter. Given that, they looked past my shyness as a side effect of reading so much, which only encouraged me to draw away from my social life. In other words, while most preteens were focused on crushes and friendships, as well as the occasional party, I could be found in a variety of different positions on the couch, engrossed in one of the many books I acquired from that week’s library trip.

There are times when I wonder what I would be like had I not spent my entire preteen period nose-deep in books. Would I be more social? Would I be less awkward? Would I be able to make small talk easily, as everyone my age seems to be able to do? Would I have more of a love life? What kind of friends would I be surrounded by? Would I even be interested in Language Arts? Of course, when I consider these, I know they are rhetorical questions, because it is currently impossible to travel back in time. But let’s for a moment pretend we are in the year 3030 and a group of brilliant scientists have created a time traveling machine. This is amazing news, except there is a catch: all of the side effects have not been determined and tested yet, making the results entirely unknown. After the usual day or two (or week) of overthinking, I decide to give it a try, because if my books have taught me anything, it’s that you only live once.

As soon as I step into my 12-year-old self, I have to force myself to drop the book in my hand, despite how wrong and unusual it feels. If I set out to produce a change, I intend to see it play out in full spectrum. I notice my parents rushing to get ready for some sort of event, and realize I’m clad in a flowy burgundy dress. I remember this day perfectly; New Year’s Eve. I spent the night reading The Hunger Games, trying to avoid speaking to my cousins despite their efforts to include me in the conversation. But this version of this day proceeded differently, because there was no book to keep the awkwardness at bay. Despite the difficulty, I spoke to my cousins and even cracked a few jokes that made them chuckle. As the night came to an end, I found myself becoming looser, and I noted their surprise at my openness. That was only the beginning of what can only be described as a domino effect. I found myself attending school events more often, choosing socializing and meeting new people over a book. I wasn’t as worried that people would think I’m boring, leading to closer relationships with a few guys I found attractive. I became more interested in logical subjects, such as math and science, rather than the humanities I had always been comfortable in. With that, came an increased level of respect from classmates, because they believed that logical aptitude had a direct correlation to intelligence. Despite trying my best to ignore it, I couldn’t help but feel my creativity gradually approaching its breaking point. I no longer felt the sudden need to grab a pen and paper and spill my thoughts on it, weaving words together to form a poem. I no longer indulged in novels for the fun of it. Everything became orderly in my life, everything was as structured and planned out as a math problem. And although my changed self did not feel uncomfortable with this situation, I could not have felt more estranged from that type of lifestyle. But perhaps the hardest part of first dropping that book on New Year’s Eve, was seeing all the friends I currently have drift past the changed me, forever strangers to me. We were parallel lines, never crossing, never meeting. In this new life, we were not meant to be. All the memories we’ve made throughout my years had been extinguished with that one action. It was only when I was talking to a girl who was supposedly my best friend that the walls started to close in, and I suddenly felt constricted in this other self’s life. The words coming out of my mouth were foreign, as if I was speaking a language entirely unfounded. Words. And there they were again, bringing me out the same way they brought me in.

Once I emerged on the “other side”, I was quickly asked a few questions about myself to make sure I hadn’t lost the most integral aspects of my current self. Everything was intact, no remnants of my changed self remained. There had been no ripples in the graph, they said; I had not altered anything. This was the greatest relief of all. Because despite my apparent lack of social and math skills, I was back in the life I belonged to. My brain was teeming with thoughts, disorderly and flamboyant, just as I was used to. My phone was filled with ridiculous texts from the friends I had grown to love and appreciate. The sarcasm I had no doubt partly obtained from the witty dialogues of the characters in my books, was at the tip of my tongue.

I can say with conviction now that time-traveling is overrated. The saying that everything happens for a reason rings true in this situation, because one drop of a book altered my entire life course. In the same way, different combinations of words have shaped the friendship circles I will treasure for my entire life, as well as the thoughts that have turned into tangible poems and stories bearing my name. That is who I am; a collection of different people and different events that have taken their space in a period of my life. And we, all of us together, will continue expanding our collections, growing and changing. What will remain the same is the foundation it was all built on. Words. Who knew they could build something as complex as a human?

—By Michelle O., 16, Brooklyn, NY