I could tell from the second I looked at you.

I saw the sleep crust unrubbed from your eyes, and that redness...

I see it in the way you carry yourself, like it's your first day walking.

Your gaze always wandering and unfocused, shielding away from any
meaningful connections.

You fear the attachment that comes with finding life beautiful.

Now that you're finally in a good spot after all the bad, does that mean everything was worth it after all?

Did not dying really mean something?

You think about it constantly, it eats at you, the past, the multiple selves you once were.

The parts you can't remember.

How do I know this?

Well, who do you think is writing?

love, Heart