All she had left was her pen. Her pockets lined empty with the same predictable things, and so she hoped her ability to ink a world would help.
She had probably heard this a million times. And the sentence before it. But this was the last thing she could do. Not that she was mad or anything, more or so trying her best. Although the help probably wasn't wanted.
She loved her a lot. She felt sorry. She wanted to say sorry for all the days she couldn't be a proper friend and all the days she's done things that could probably kill her with the guilt. As she sits at her phone crying (because for some reason Cancers cry at everything) trying to at least not have her hear the same copy and pasted stuff—she tries her very best at the last resolve that would probably be checked off the list.
She wondered why she cared so much. She never felt worth it. And they both had their moments. She would do absolutely anything for her, and even on her most sleepless nights would make everything worth it. She was the reason she could at least change things up a bit. She showed her a new world.
She was probably never her world but she was hers in a sense. And even when her world was slowly falling apart, no matter how much she might not be needed she would try to keep her world together. And if it crumbled, then they might as well crumble together.
She always dreamed of getting out of town. At least skipping out. She always imagined days of them eating out or doing something. One day, right? And for now she might create her an ending enough to distract her from the shitty world that revolves around her.
"I'd knock that shit out of orbit," she would say. Probably the weirdest line in a randomly written mini-book but she would. And if she could give her the biggest hug anybody could have the capacity to take then she would.
She's been selfish. And knows how much she's fucked up. Like a little ferris wheel. Her stomach lines with a sickness of not feeling good enough. Not in that way. But that she's been saying the same stuff, and all that could be said was the same stuff. She doesn't have to feel bad, though. It's just she wants to somehow be there.
She hopes she reads this and finds a just a small comfort. And if not at all that's okay. She's thankful she was there. All those nights of crying and breaking down and going to the brink yet somehow she let her write millions of bloodied lines. She knows she's been selfish. She's been rude and irrational and she cared people above most over herself. She scared people wanting or attempting or threatening to end it all.
