I used to think we were happy. She was the first girl I debated actually getting better for, she was the only person I wanted to be with, and for a while it felt perfect. The only problem? We’re too different. Everyone says opposites attract and for a while I believed that too, only now I know it’s a lie. I don’t need someone the exact opposite of me telling me I need to get better before I die. I got sick of her trying over and over to “fix” me. I can fix myself, thanks. I’ve told her that a million times. She just chooses not to get it.

She’d never stop offering to send me to these fancy rehabs, pay for therapists, throw me solutions like it would actually fix me. As if I haven’t made it clear that I don’t want that. I like being me. I like being high, numbing myself, turning to all these unhealthy habits. I like it. And yeah I can admit, maybe that is a bit selfish, but so what? If she can’t love me in my darkest times she never loved me at all.

So I ended it.

Still though, every time my phone buzzes and her name shows up on the screen, my hands shake, I pause whatever I’m doing to just stare at it. I’ve tried blocking her but it makes me feel even more shitty. Her voice, her laugh, her overly kind words—they’re stuck in a loop inside my head. She’s been calling me nonstop for days and I just sit there. I stare at the screen until the ringing stops and the screen goes dark. Smoke fills my lungs but it doesn’t help. My hands keep trembling because every inhale I take is a reminder of all the times she told me to stop, a big ache fills my chest.

I can hear my dad snoring from where he's passed out in the living room, empty cans scattered around him like it's something to show off. He's probably sleeping next to the trash bag he yacks in yet refuses to throw out. It's rotting and stinks and it only reminds me how I'm trapped in this with everyone's demons including my own. But that's nothing new. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but it never comes. Not here. Not like this.

Then I hear something—a soft knock coming from my window. My chest tightens, I already know it's her before turning to look. She climbs in like we're still a thing and she still belongs here, as if this broken, suffocating room doesn't swallow everything in it. Her designer clothes cling to her perfect frame, her bag swings like it's mocking me. She's flawless, always was. And It makes me hate her just a little more.

I'm standing from my bed before I realize it myself. Why would she ever need to be here?

“What are you doing here?” I snap, my voice raising and cracking, and I hate how weak it sounds.

Her eyes soften, and that’s what kills me. That stupid pitying look.