{ chapter six }
Will I ever be good enough for anyone? Will I ever experience true love? All I am right now is a torn work of art. I still haven't heard anything from connor, I was stupid to think he actually cared about me. It was probably some sort of sick joke, that he had to speak to me for his friends amusement. People have been coming in and out of the ward. Occasionally they will try to make conversation but most of the time everyone is silent. Sometimes I wonder why all the recoveries go into the same room, it is filled with sad people who wish they would have succeeded and took their own lives. I've took up reading ever since I've been here, the nurses like to give me their favourite book and let me read it, then decide my thoughts on it. I've just finished 'the fault in our starts-John Green' and I still can't describe what I thought of it. There was so much emotion in it that I didn't know what to say. Today a new patient arrived in the ward, the nurses told me that his name was 'Harry Powell'. I've wanted to speak to him but I'd much rather observe him, the way he reacts to things, his attitude towards life and how fascinating he is. He is beautifully depressed.
