And she is back to square one, bent and broken - but is still breathing. She will crawl her way out of it, the last taking longer than the one preceded it. She loses herself to each one of them; she gave love with little in return sometimes none at all. She will tell herself she is fine. It is the lie she repeats day in and day out, that maybe if she believes it hard enough, she will be actually, in the simplest sense of the word - okay. But she never will be. There will always be something missing.