She was the solider out of the pair or us. She was the strongest; her emotions could endure anything at anytime. She could walk through a storm and still be there to smile that fake smile she perfected over the year. But those smiles began to slowly fade away. She wasn’t talking to me as much, and when we did talk, it was always about her depression, her scars and her disorders and imperfections. I sat there every night and kissed every one of those scars, but one night she just pulled back and neglected to explain why as we sat there in silence. She would always have something to say when everything was quiet and she was always keen to share her stories and tell her long tales, but now, she doesn’t tell me a thing. She’s shut herself in and kept me out. One day, she had finally had enough of society and locked herself in her room. I slammed on the door and ask her to tell me what’s wrong, but she told me to go away and let her drown in her emotions. I slid down to the floor and sat against the door and thought what I did wrong and what I could’ve done better. “I know you’re still there, now go away.” I forced my dead body to summon the energy and effort to get up. I began to take the walk of shame, trying to fight my tears, while she sobbed all through the night, her troubles battling her sanity, until she surrendered. I went back to her house to find a knocked over chair, puddles of blood on the carpet and her lifeless body hanging from the ceiling from a noose made of a thick rope. There was a letter on the table next to her; I picked it up to see it had my name on it. I slowly opened the envelope, wiping back the tears and pulled the note out. It simply said:
“Thank you for trying.”
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