You just couldn't help being sick.

You know you're a burden to anyone who bothers to get close; the labels, the pills, the episodes. It was too much for you to handle, nevermind anyone else, and you were hitting the bottom of a spiral you couldn't see yourself resurfacing from.

You sat on the roof, watching the stars above. Your coat is stuffed with things — a razor, a pill bottle, smokes. You know, just in case.

The echo of footsteps on the concrete roof shakes you from your thoughts.