I guess now is the time to reflect, isn't it, before I can't reflect anymore. I broke up with her, and found myself lost. I couldn't move on from anything. My roommate, my ex. His body against the sink, her body against mine. Piece by piece, I started to fall apart. I thought I knew my life plan, albeit a thin one. I mean, who the hell gets a job in creative writing or journalism? The lucky ones. I have never been lucky.
I finish the sentence and pull back, realising what I just wrote, shakily repeating the phrase to myself over and over. 'I have never been lucky.' I am sweating, and my breaths raspy, yet I cannot stop saying it. 'I have never been lucky,' I whisper to the floor, feeling the words fall meaningless out of my mouth. Closing my eyes, I steady my pen, hesitant to go on. My fingers close around thin air and the pen clatters to the floor, the sound as metal hits brick almost painful to my ears. I open my eyes quickly, and in a frantic spurt of energy, crumple up the letter. Ripping it, shredding it, and crushing it on my hands.
I pick up the notebook, and pick up the pen, carefully, suppressing the want to scream in frustration.
She was my drug, but it was at my own feet I would fall to my demise.
