“How am I supposed to let go of something I can’t picture myself without?
How am I supposed to breathe without my lifeline, preventing me from suffocating?
How am I supposed to be me when I was made to be this? This?
Was I made to be unhappy?
Was I made to be hurt?
Was I made to get hurt, more importantly?
I must be,” she answered herself with a twisted laugh.
“But you weren’t,” I responded.
“Then what?” she scoffed.
“You were made to get away from the things ailing you and live. Darling, go live.”
She never came back—so, I’d like to believe she was too busy living.
Ded. Your Reflection
