Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
3:00 PM
Every Saturday, Emma and I go to the park. Today is Saturday, but I'm sitting on my bed and Emma is probably sitting on the bench by the pond, holding her own hands and wondering where I am, but if I'm being honest, I can't do this anymore. I can't tell her that her eyes are bright and beautiful when they're dull and lifeless and I can't tell her that Sunday's are my favorite days because I don't like waking up next to her when her hair smells like cigarettes.
I don't feel angry. I don't think too much when I go to bed and I don't want to punch my wall when I hear my parents arguing downstairs, but Emma is in denial. She ignores her bones and her appetite and how purple the bags under her eyes are. I've realized that she needs me more than I need her, and just because she won't admit it doesn't mean that whatever we're doing is okay.
I wrote her a letter yesterday. I think I'll call her instead
