There is nobody for me to talk to. I just like to imagine that any conversation I hold with myself contains the same depth of interaction as one I might hold with anyone else.
I'm not lonely.
I'm alone, but I'm not lonely. There's just a sort of empty sadness at the fact of it. Loneliness would come if there was somebody I wanted to talk to, to argue with, to smile with, to dance with, to run with, to laugh with, to hold close to me.
If somebody tries to talk to me, I will shut them out. If they try to argue with me, I will turn away and close my eyes. If somebody smiles at me, I will force my mouth to pretend I am happy when I want nothing more than to disappear.
Dancing... Dancing is another story. I have not run or laughed from my heart in two years.
YOU ARE READING
We'll Always Go On
FanfictionRose, living two years after the disaster of the Titanic, questions again if she must really keep living for a promise that already been broken.
