Everything I say and everything I do only reminds me of places I've been and people I've met with you. It's suffocating, the way that I can't turn my head without seeing something, anything that causes a physical ache in my heart. I can't listen to the radio in case Photograph is played because I cry, but that's not unusual. I cry a lot. I like to think that you cry just as much when you're reminded of me, but I'm not that special. I'm not forgettable, but I'm not special or important enough to matter. I never have been. Maybe you're different though. Maybe you care (or cared? I can't be sure) enough not to forget every moment we spent together. Maybe you remember every time out lips so delicately touched, the way that they locked together like two pieces of the world's most beautiful jigsaw, or the way our hands intertwined like they could never be apart again. But then again, this is probably not the case. And it's not like I deserve your remembrance, anyway.
I was trying to do the right thing, by not telling you. But I know nothing about the 'right thing' and everything I ever do is wrong, so I should have known. Nothing could make the fact that I fucked your chef go away. Not the drink that fuelled the sex itself, not the denial that I stooped so low, and definitely not pretending to be happy and guiltless with you. So yes, I should have told you before Tracy did and you got angry but your eyes showed only betrayal and sadness and you left. But how could I have? How do you tell the love of your life that you slept with someone else? We didn't even sleep and I don't know whether that makes it better or far, far worse.
I fucked up and I know it. I can't hide from that, but that's exactly what I'm trying to do. People think I'm coping well without you, without the half of me I so desperately relied on, but they see me on the street in my favourite heels with a smile permanently plastered on my face like some sort of porcelain mask. Yet porcelain is delicate and my mask can't survive the whole day. I pretend that I don't have a problem but I've been here before. If you only have a few glasses a night then it's not a problem. But the glasses get bigger and the nights get longer until they're bottles and days but still people don't notice because nobody cares, not really. You cared. But you're gone.
So here I am, alone again. They told me I'd end up alone, every single one of them. My mum (if you can even call her that) and Tony and Frank and Tracy and even Leanne, and they were right. I've always known that they were right but I didn't want to believe that my existence in this world is actually that futile. I wanted to mean something, you know? I longed for the world to know who Carla Connor was and for that to be a good thing. Yet the world will be left with nothing. Everyone who ever loved me is dead or now hates me. Not that I don't deserve it, but it hurts. It hurts because I thought I'd found happiness so many times, only to end up less happy after each good memory. Each memory is a scar on my already exhausted body and it's too much. But none of that matters now. Once you leave this world, I like to thing you never look back. I'd like there to be something more. I can try again; I'll be free to reinvent myself.