My name is Zu.

And I have a story to tell. The weird thing is, I’m not sure what it is.

But what I know—is it’s an amazing story. Maybe that’s how all storytellers feel. But this feels like my story, which is strange because I’m only 16, and I haven’t done anything too impressive. But in this story inside me, I can feel all the passion, the people, the drama and the tragedy, the heartache.

The love.

Sometimes I wonder, where did this story come from? Did all this come from my imagination—or somewhere else?

It doesn’t matter.

I’m the one who has to tell it.

I’m sitting at Jack's Coffee in New York City, drawing by the dawn windows. That’s how I tell stories. I let the pencil guide my hand, until the pictures take shape. The people, the places unfold on my tablet—and slowly, bit by bit, a story begins to emerge.

Like broken pieces of a puzzle.