I was sitting back.And I was listening.And I was hearing something about her and about windows and mirrors.Chuck Parson was a person.Like me.Margo Roth Spiegalman was a person, too.And I had never quite thought of her that way, not really; it was a failure to all my previous imaginings.All along-not only since she left, but for a decade before-I had been imagining her without listening, without knowing that she made as poor a window as I did.And so I could not imagine her as a person who could feel fear, who could feel isolated in a roomful of people, who could be shy about her record collection because it was too personal to share.Someone who might read travel books to escape having to live in the town that so many people escape to.Someone who-because noone thought she was a person-has no one to really talk to.The fundamental mistake I had always made-and that, she had, in fairness, always led me to make-was this: Margo was not a miracle.She was not an adventure.She was not a fine and precious thing.She was a girl.

-Paper Towns by John Green