Months later, I walked into my last period study hall class with a pack of skittles and my book-bag inching off my shoulder. I crouched smack center in between fiction and nonfiction, the conflicting sides of my life, with a laptop propped up against my knee and popped a skittle. I was supposed to be busying myself with my research paper on Ralph Waldo Emerson, but I just didn't care enough. Or not that I didn't care, but I just could not focus. I mean, honestly, how could I? I didn't want to be there. And I didn't mean the library and I did not mean school, I meant this life. The therapy was a blessing, but knowing that the only person in the world that means something to you, that becomes your reason for breathing, ceases to remember that he ever  said, I love you, tends to dig a deep, burning, irreparable vortex in the center of your soul. And knowing that, even if you made through unscathed, you are the only one hurting, the only one broken, and the only one who can never be fixed. The last bell signaled school was over, and I jumped up, grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulders, and worked my way through the tangle of desks to the back doors.
      Later that day, before my endless daydream began, I lay on the soft carpet in the middle of my room. My arms stretched by my sides and my eyes fixed on the only light on my ceiling. There were tears drying on my cheeks and I was alone listening to the sound of cars outside my home. Twenty-five sleeping pills were counted in one hand, and the other held a bottle of vodka. No one was coming home for the next few hours, so I lifted the pills to my mouth and sipped the burning alcohol. As I closed my eyes, I thought of him, of him with her. The light on my ceiling began to blur and slowly everything became dark.
     An hour or so later, I woke, the sun was setting outside, the light in my room was off and the doors shut. Through the dim light shining through the window, I found my way to the mirror, my eyes were smeared with black eyeliner and mascara. I was wearing a light green tank top and pajama bottoms. My hair was everywhere but in place, but my face looked fuller, happier.
"Babe, come here" his soft beautiful voice warmed my ears and stopped my heart.
      He's back…
      I ran down the stairs to the living room and there he was, sitting with an Xbox controller in hand and an arm stretched out where I should be. I skipped over to the couch and snuggled in his arms.

The End