Nobody gave me a last name. In the system, I was a number.
So I picked one. That's a strange thing to get to do. Most people get their name before they can hold their own head up. I got to shop.
I tried a lot. Casey Monroe was too much. Casey Hart sounded like a perfume. Casey Smith sounded like I was hiding, which, fair, but still.
Vale stuck. It's an old word for a valley. It also sounds like "veil," which I didn't notice until after. I liked it more once I did. There's the me you see in the photos, and there's the me who writes this. Same girl, different lighting.
Something else I noticed this week. Whenever I get to choose where to sit, I pick the window. Every time. Café, car, train, doesn't matter. And it's not the light. I checked. I'd still pick the window in the dark.
It's not a big deal. It's just weird to have a favorite thing and not know where it came from. Like having a song stuck in your head and not remembering where you heard it.
Anyway. Casey Vale. Nice to meet you.
— C