"Why are you at war with yourself?" That was what Zain had asked me once, and I had no answer.

It had sounded absurd because how could anyone be at war with themselves? Now, I know better. He was right, and I had been at war with myself. A fact I realized after the war was already lost. Was it even losing if you lose to yourself? I have completely lost my mind. Or is it that I'm only now regaining sanity?

I'll be the first to admit I knew little about life, but there are a few things I know for sure. One of them is the fear that surrounds me—the fear that I'll never die.

I don't know why, but there it is. Death will never find me, and it scares the hell out of me because everyone dies eventually. It's the way of the world. I'm the only cursed individual who must live a thousand lives. To what end, though? I don't know.

You must be wondering how I'm so sure of it. Here's the thing: I'm over ninety years old, yet I look nothing over thirty. I stopped aging at thirty, and that's how I have remained since then. I'd agree if you think that's not a sign of immortality. I can die at this very moment. So what if I don't age? People die at thirty all the time. You'd be wrong because I tried dying before and discovered, to my utter dismay, that nothing can kill me. Anyway, that's the least of my worries.

There's a much bigger problem plaguing my waking hours, which is what we're here to discuss.

Some things we never fully understand because we rarely appreciate what we have, and by the time we realize it, it's usually too late. If life is trying to teach me a lesson, I haven't learned it yet. Everyone I once knew is buried seven feet underground. At thirty, I was alone by choice. And at ninety, I'm alone because my fate dictates it. You know, fiction romanticizes immortality. Well, it's nothing other than one day blending into the other with no end in sight.

I was the girl who loved books more than people and the woman who never mourned the loss of a loved one. I left my brother alone to pick up the pieces left behind and let no one close enough to see into my soul.

Life that was once a dream has become my nightmare, but after three hundred years of torment, I'm mature enough to understand how life works. These days, I'm more accepting of others, thoughtful, compassionate, and empathetic than before. I genuinely care about my fellow humans and often help them from the sidelines.

I feel the loss now acutely—the loss of a life I have never lived and that of a thousand others I have yet to live. Fate has played its ultimate joke, but I'm not laughing. Once, I had it all: a family, a home, and people who loved me unconditionally. I ruined everything because of petty misunderstandings. In retrospect, I realized how immature I was.

Alas, I can't turn back time. All I can do is regret and hope for a better future. I wonder when my life will finally end or if it will ever end. My only hope is that living a thousand lives will teach me to do it right at least once.

Unfortunately, I'm no less of a recluse. People don't need to know about me; I can never stay in one place for long. What will be the point of letting people into my heart or my life when they will soon be gone and I'll always be here?

I'm older than any human has a right to be, and I have walked on this earth alone for a long time. Sometimes, I wish for death because the loneliness that accompanies immortality is suffocating. Unable to share my secret with another soul, I find it challenging to connect with people. My life is a mess, yet it's a life I must keep on living. For how long, though? Well, I don't know.

One life worth living is all I ask for.