Chuck and Blair- Blair and Chuck.

The worst thing you ever did.

I don't have a story.

I mean, I did, about ten years ago?

Not now though.

Not anymore.

I am no longer the girl in the picture who will always smile back at you.

Love.

Love sucks.

Love is empty and meaningless.

Like the stars that shine at night, untouchable, foolish, deceiving lights in the endless black- they cannot light up the world with their feeble miniscule glow. They cannot be touched, they cannot be used as a torch for a blackened way. They only glitter, they only flicker, they only exist but outside the mind.

Friendship.

It could never have been real.

The laughter is fake and illusory- it misleads into believing that the world is full of golden, bubbling, overflowing lights when its not.

The world is empty and hollow and abandoned, at its worse. There is no light. There is only night and tears and missing people that will never know there was something to miss back.

I lay there sometimes in the dark.

I lay there, with my dark hair falling behind me, trailing all over the white carpeted floor.

I stare at the sky, the black sky.

I stare at the ceiling, at the careful white paint strokes.

I stare and stare and it doesn't matter if my breathing is shallow.

If my pulse is weak.

If my dark eyes are dilated.

It doesn't matter because still, I cannot see you.

There is a shard in my hand.

Is it glass? No its crystal.

I won't cut, because I promised.

I promised I would never hurt myself.

I never would have.

I won't.

I can't.

You beat me to it, anyway.

It hurts.

I am hurt.

I am broken.

I am dying.

I am dead.

Dead, here, without you.

The crystal slips from my fingers and my eyes are blank, just staring at the endless white ceiling.

Somewhere, from far away I can hear you calling.

Calling my name.

"Are you insane, Waldorf?"

Yes.

"What is wrong with you?"

Something's always been wrong with me.

"Why are you like this?"

You would know.

"I'm not coming back."

I know.

"I am never coming back."

Rub it in, why don't you.

"Go home, Blair."

I don't have a home.

"Get up."

But I am too stubborn, so stubborn and I stare at the ceiling, at the paint strokes, at the emptiness, the loneliness, the fact that I cannot breathe.

After a while, its time to go to work, so get up, shower and pick my way through the street because I have to make it on time. I have to make it.

I have to pretend for one more day until comes the day when I can no longer remember your voice, the day I will give up.

They say the inability to accept loss, is the first step towards insanity. Am I insane? Have I lost my mind?

I don't know.

All I know is, if there is a way I can move on, I'd take it.