It was just before dawn. He’d snuck into her second story room hours earlier, knowing they would kill him if they found him. Midnight’s bravery had faded since then, though, and death was suddenly less palatable. He needed to go. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She stalled, claiming the morning bird was really a nightingale. When her mom approached, though, everything changed. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll die.” She said no. If they hated him for who he was then she would cease to be one of them. And, then the words that shaped forever happened so naturally they seemed to form from thin air. She denounced her name. She wouldn’t be that person. “What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Thank you, Shakespeare, for letting Juliet Capulet intro this week’s column. What’s in a name, anyway? Where did yours come from?
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