But you'd sell your soul for it, wouldn't you? For one day of feeling beautiful.

I won't be alive so I won't care who finds me.

The truth remains. I was, and am, disgusted with myself.

I close my eyes and black out the day. The exhaustion of living through it, surviving.

Sometimes I'd catch myself looking at my reflection in windows and wonder who I was. Where I was going. Then the image would change and it wouldn't be me, just some nebulous shadow person.

That earns him a smack with my book bag. "Ow." He clutches his arm. "What do you have in there? Books?" A grin snakes across his face. "I like my women feisty." He adds, "I like my broken.

Is that all I am? A friend?" "Of course not," I say. "I love you." "Am I the only one?" she asks. "Yes. Completely." First, last, and always.