Ken Adams has no idea how this book happened.
One minute he was minding his own business,
and the next—boom—feelings. Everywhere.

He overthinks conversations from three years ago,
falls in love with fictional characters,
and writes like it's the only way to make sense of things
he should probably talk to a therapist about.

He’s not an expert on love. Or life.
But he is very qualified in
writing unnecessarily long texts
and pretending he's fine when he's absolutely not.

This is the part where authors usually say something wise.
He’s still working on that.