i'm so fucking sick. of you, of garrett, of being depressed. i'm sick of not eating and hiding pills and counting them each day in the hopes of having enough to never have to wake up and remind myself that i love you but you're already hopelessly in love with a perfect guy.
most of all, i'm sick of me, though. i've lost forty-six pounds since the day you ran out of my house, pleading that i never speak to you again. what the hell were you thinking?
school is starting soon, which is going to bring on a whole new level of stress and anxiety. stress is apparently an outlet to losing weight as well, from what i've read online.
i can't take much more.
maybe i'll count the pills. be right back.
okay so i have thirty-eight pills. that seems like more than enough to at least throw me into a coma. would that be enough to catch your attention??? or will it take dying on the floor in my bedroom with an empty bottle of hidden pills and a box full of unwritten letters to realize that i am not fucking kidding?
maybe i'll use them.
maybe.
-cal
p.s. you've won. congratulations.
YOU ARE READING
marilyn / c.h.
Fanfictionin which two strangers write letters to piece together the events of a wild night
