This is not a story about Her.

I wrote, then quickly erased the line. That wasn't the best way to start this.

You know well that it is a story about her.

I shook my head, leaned back in chair, and ran my fingers through my lengthening hair as I stared at the ceiling. It was 2:43, a Tuesday, I hadn't had a shower yet. I had been lazier on the Christmas break than I'd like to have been, and while I enjoyed the break I actually looked forward towards next semester; it would give me less time to think.

Time for a shower. Undress, look disdainfully at my unshaven neck, briefly appreciate my above-average looks, quickly dwell on my pudgy stomach. Water. I used to hate hot showers, but now I hate them if they aren't scalding.

You hated them before Her.

It's true, I was a wimp with heat before Her, but I had to adapt. Now I'm cold all the time, can't get hot enough. Wore two shirts in a record-breaking summer, like a crazy guy. Do I like the warm water or do I just want to feel the pain? That's pretty edgy, gotta hold back on that.

If the story isn't about Her, what is it about? Definitely about unseen pains, all the changes, all the hiding, about being a loser.

"I hate this."

I plunged my head into the stream of water, felt the burning on my scalp, and turned the heat all the way up. I ran my fingers through my hair, gently rubbing my scalp like She used to do. My fingers couldn't take the heat long, and five minutes was enough hair washing.

I got out of the shower, towel about my waist, and pressed two hands on the counter. I looked at the sink for at least another five minutes before I could even think about moving.

Remember that time She - I remember everything. Absolutely all of it. The good times, the bad times, all seven years of friendship and nearly half as much of being together, but that isn't what my story is about. It may have shaped me, it may have changed me, but this is my story now. My story has nothing to do with Her. I treated her right and no one with any sense could ever deny that.

But it all went wrong.

"It wasn't my fault."

Doesn't stop it from all being wrong, Jack. And how about the reason you started writing? Isn't that a great rumor - she might be a whore! Wouldn't you want to spread that?

"It's hardly even a rumor, and it's been well over a year."

I brushed my teeth, I couldn't talk and brush my teeth at the same time. I didn't talk for at least ten minutes. An hour prior I had started, and failed, writing. It was time to get back to work. I pulled up YouTube, saw some good videos, wasted two hours. I needed just a little bit more before I could write, so I pulled up my usual nerd-themed image board. I saw a kinky looking succubus, IQDB, Danbooru, etc. A few tissues and another hour.

"I'm such a failure."

You could be more, if you'd only - Do anything. Literally anything. I do nothing, I have no energy!

I haven't slept more than twenty minutes at a time in well over a year.

I haven't slept more than twenty minutes at a time in well over a year.

That seemed like a good enough start, I could always change it later. Should I call it "The Insomniac?" That's the working title, at least. I should check Her facebook, see if She's still alive. In fact, go ahead and start playing "Creep." I wish to God I could forget, but I'm afraid that'd make me more vulnerable.