For the moment, my life is a little schizophrenic.
Her writing was her only escape, her only means of survival. It was a respite from a cruel world, despite seemingly comfortable surroundings.
Things work out the way they're meant to
It's hard being visible, so I've made myself invisible.
And the worst thing she had heard were the words he hadn't said, the fact that he hadn't loved her.
If it's meant to be, they'll find a way to make it work eventually.