I made some coffee today.

I read the news, (it’s personal, you see) and the voices in the paper tell me that you’re doing fine. Flip to page 8 for the rest of the story.

“…and I am feeling great and I never loved you like you wanted me to, and that’s why I left. Your fake world was perfect for a long time. Picnics on the kitchen floor and you didn’t want to cross boundaries, you just wanted to feel goosebumps on your skin. It was fun to play along for a while, but you were growing unbearable and this world was becoming unforgiveable and I didn’t do it for you, I did it for me.”

Non-dairy creamer and I spill it across the floor. I keel over and I press my cheek into its texture. There’s nothing here to see except for a perfect pool of snow and a dead girl laying inside of it.