xix. Pink
She still can't believe he left her. It seems so long ago. She hates this feeling, like she's alone every hour of every day, even when there are people. And she feels like she's running on nothing but the idea of him, of them…she's just hollowed out, a shell. She goes home, and seeks it out. Pours some into her hand.
Two. Four. Seven. Three. The number doesn't really matter anymore. Downs them with anything. Tap water. Coffee. Whiskey. She's stopped caring. She just needs to stop feeling.
Pink. Pretty pink. Like her prom dress.
She just wants to forget.