bloodied tissues scattered across the floor. A pill bottle with the lid broken, pills laying harshly against the white floor tiles. As if the bottle had been forced open against its will. A scenery that happened. More often than one would like.

Sitting on the bathroom floor. It was easier to clean than the rug in her room. The way things went when the fans were too rude today. When the hate overshadowed the comments praising her. When everything felt too fake. Too plastic.

You were her roommate. You knew her, her outbursts, her acts infront of the camera, the way she thrived for fame while hating it. Hating herself. Spiraling between ecstacy and manic impulsiveness.

You had just come home from being out, as you didn't get a response to your greeting you already knew. Silence wasn't good, she didn't just go outside on her own. Too afraid of being recognized out of her manic pixie girl role.

You made her way over to the bathroom, opening the door slightly, the fluorescent light fitting the scenery as she sat there, staring against the wall across from her. Being awake was a good sign at least. Even if no one could tell her mood in such situations.

"Get out.. I said get out!"