Sleep is something people seem to take for granted. Some people slip into a dream as they would a pair of comfy slippers, but for me it’s incredibly difficult. It’s like trying to put on socks just after you’ve got out of the shower. They cling to your feet before you’ve even got them on properly. It’s an uphill struggle.

Some nights I’ll walk to the balcony, and look out at the city. It’s noisy, and the sky is a dull purply-orange, illuminated by hundreds of street-lamps. It’s simultaneously beautiful and sickening.

Sometimes, for a brief moment, I rest my feet on the balcony fence and consider how it would feel if I climbed over to the other side and just let go. Finish it, be done with it all. Because living isn’t easy, less so when you’re doing it alone. I worry that it will be this way forever. I worry that contentment is something that will always elude me.

It’s not just a fear of dying alone. It’s more than that. It’s fear of dying alone, and never knowing what I would’ve wanted to make me happy.