After film night, Clarke's weekend started quite well. She woke up on Saturday surprisingly rested and eager to be productive. Without any second thoughts or problems of motivation, she wrote the first draft of her lab report part and worked on the huge pile of other homework. She made herself a salad with chicken, nuts and avocado and felt damn healthy. Antoni would be proud of her. She cleaned her kitchen and changed her bed cloths, took a long shower, fell into her fresh bed and felt wholly good. God, the whole of Fab Five would be proud of her.

The surprising mixture of working much and yet feeling great sustained on Sunday, where she finished her lab report, send it to the others and bothered about an important test on Wednesday.

It didn't last until Monday, though.

She woke up feeling heavy like a stone. She hadn't slept well, dreaming weird things and awaking every few hours. Her routine morning procedure seemed more complicated than ever and she nearly took the wrong train to uni. In a text message to Bellamy she made it seem like fun but she definitively didn't feel like laughing. It didn't go better after two cups of strong coffee and certainly not after her lab partners told her that they hadn't even started writing their parts yet. She made quite a scene in the corridor and stormed off to the ladies room afterwards. Seeing her face in the mirror, with these deep lines and the lack of make-up, she realised how done she looked. She hoped she had at least made quite the impression on her lab group and would have their reports by evening. Hopefully the day would be over soon. She hated it – but much more she hated herself.

Of course her e-mail account was empty when she came home, as empty as a sheet of fresh white printer paper. No lab reports, no answer from her mum and Bellamy hadn't replied to her text either. The dinner nearly got burnt, she failed at studying for the test and cursed about her current state of life a bit too loud and a bit too angry. When she eventually went to bed, she just prayed the next day would be better.

Of course, it wasn't.

Heavy rain fell against the windows as she stood up. Clarke was hungry, she was cold and had a headache. Over the day, everything that could go wrong went wrong. The professor narrowed the test's focus down to the wrong topics. Her bag broke and she had to carry her things in a plastic bag across campus. Every piece of her things and herself was drenched from the rain. During the lecture, she tried to plan her next steps towards a successful lab report and test and panicked. Lunch at the cafeteria was shit and didn't make her feel any better. Buying coke did a little bit.

She got the first lap report at five o'clock and it was horrible. She started proof-reading it and sent it back when the got the second. It – thank god – was so good she only had correct that one little typo.

The last part never came. At 8 p.m. her lab partner sent her a short mail about being sick and not being at uni tomorrow. And not handing in his part.

She screamed internally, texted her friend's group chat "COMPLETE IDIOTS" and started writing his part. She was angry, yes, she drunk too much coke, yes, and she probably was an idiot herself for writing his part, yes, but she couldn't hand in a faulty lab report.

It took her long after midnight. While the printer did its job, Clarke fell on her bed and didn't want to move – ever again. She drifted into sleep and realised too late she didn't study for the test tomorrow.

Wednesday started with the sun shining into her face but as soon as she ran across the campus to hand in their lab report, rain drops again fell on her face and hair and shoulders.

When the professor came in with a pile of copies, she suddenly remembered the text and could only just stop herself from cursing right into the professor's face.

The food at the cafeteria was shitty, again, and as she sat there alone, forcing herself to eat and realising that her mother hadn't talked to her for a week, she decided that her life was just as shitty as cafeteria food.

She was down and she knew it. And she knew she should do something about it, as always.

The problem was that she didn't have any strength to pull her out of it by herself. She had have several depressed times in her past, days and weeks where everything went wrong and broke apart, but she always managed to go on, keep her head up high and keep fighting. Only now, she couldn't. She noticed how it was over, how every ounce of power had left her body and she just wanted to curl herself into her bed with food and never get out of it again. But her Wednesdays were long and she had to go to classes, otherwise the resulting work load would be the reason of her actual death.

Oh god, she needed holidays so badly. She grabbed her things and left for the next lecture.

Clarke was able to leave the campus at 6 p.m. On her way home, she did some grocery shopping and nearly cried about the heaviness of her back. She didn't. She still had some dignity left somewhere.

Everything in her flat and especially in her kitchen reminded her of her mum. Of how they both brought the furniture, how they painted the kitchen walls and how they organised her devices. A week later, Clarke had re-arranged everything the way she wanted it, but still, her mother was with her.

She hit her foot on the table and inhaled air sharply, forcing back tears of pain while observing the dark rain clouds outside. It really were those long, dim weeks before winter, where the cold settled down between the buildings in preparation for the chilly months to come, where sharp, icey winds blew the last colourful leaves away and where rain turned every surface into slick and dark holes swallowing every light.

She threw her shopping items into the fridge and closed the door with a loud noise. Her eyes fell on the pictures she had pinned to the door with magnets. The clique at one of their game nights, a snapshot where everyone looked dork-y but exactly how they were. She and Wells at graduation. The house she grew up in. Octavia, Raven and her at Monty's birthday party where he wanted everyone to dress up nicely and the girls decided to turn up "smoking hot" (Clarke had felt so unsure about her dress but, damn, she never felt more sexy when the boys' eyes nearly fell out at her sight). The arts museum in her home town. Her dad. Her parents at the beach.

Abby was still her mother after all. And Clarke probably pushed her away. What the hell was she thinking? Anger made room for grief.

Suddenly, Clarke came into motion. She ran through the flat searching for her phone, found it on the mess called night's cupboard and called her mother.

Finally there was the ringing tone, then the second. She sat down on her bed, the suspense nearly killed her.

While the phone let go some more ringing tones, Clarke looked around her small room. What a mess she made in the last few days. Everywhere were book piles, folders, clothes, dishes. Her bedside locker looked horrible. While waiting for her mother to pick up, Clarke tidied it a bit, organised the books and cables, threw old tissues away and opened the drawers.

She froze. There were sketches. Old facial drawings, back from when she had that sketch-pad with the rough, beige paper. She immediately knew what it was (or rather, who) but couldn't believe it survive in her bedside locker so long. She pulled the paper out of the board. Clarke was shocked.

The drawing in front of her eyes merged with images of the person, echoes of feelings under her finger tips, memories of sounds and buzzes through her bones.

A long, oval face with a narrow nose and huge, round, light eyes. The long hair in a half up-do. The lips, so full, round and soft, and pink. And her skin had been so clean and pure, at all times, and always with that gentle glow. And her scent.

Damn, she had loved her so much.

But something acidic resonated with the drawing. It reminded her how things broke apart. How, in a situation where she was far away from home, separated from mother and father, in a new environment, where she was busy keeping her head above water, under pressure of all kinds, how that woman suddenly appeared and made her feel so good. She understood her, she showed her how to live better. They were so fascinated by each other. Clarke had a lump in her throat. Beautiful memories filled her mind, a constant flow of images breaking at her inner eye, lulling her.

And then she had left, so suddenly Clarke couldn't even say farewell. Tears filled Clarke's eyes. Lexa had taken her heart and shuttered it into pieces. She didn't even know what she really felt for her … – shit, Clarke never got to tell her how much she had meant to her. And now she was gone, she had left, and she had left Clarke, left her alone in her flat and all by herself.

She didn't even know where she lived today or what she did with her life.

In a resolute motion, Clarke finished the call, stood up and wiped the tears from her cheeks. It wasn't good being alone with that kind of thoughts. She desperately needed to let everything out. Let everything out to someone who would give constructive criticism.

But the tears didn't stop right away so she packed her bag with her view blurred by tears. She grabbed comfy clothes, microwave popcorn and a tooth brush. Who knew what the evening would bring. She let go a deep, concentrated sigh.

In the bathroom, she washed her face with ice-cold water and felt ready to face the outer world. She just had to survive a quick bus drive and then she could break down completely.

She rang the bell at the Blake's apartment building and heart Bellamy on the intercom. "Yeah?"

"Hey, it's Clarke."

"Heeeeeeeey, come iiiinnnn!"

The door buzzed and Clarke quickly pulled it open. She was slightly confused about Bellamy's reaction, it was way too happy and euphoric.

When she stepped out of the elevator and saw him in his door, she knew why.

There stood a girl in front of Bellamy.