The pen spilt ink-blood onto the page. Fitting, I guess; Writing is just opening a vein and bleeding onto paper.

I knew what I had come here to do. Pretty simple, really. Just a few words. Six, to be precise. But writing them meant it was real. Writing them meant I couldn’t pretend anymore, I couldn’t act like nothing had happened. The words that would decide the rest of my existence. Now or never.

So I wrote them, the words that meant finality. I etched them deep into the pages of my diary, one by one, daring the ink to bleed through.

I- don’t – want – to- live- anymore.

I sat there as a single, angry tear burned down my cheek. Stupid. Stupid. I crossed the words out until they were no longer legible. Ripping out the page, I crumpled it up and held it over the flame of the candle. Destroy all evidence.

I’m okay. Everything’s fine. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.