The fifth time she leaves, I never see her again. She tells me the same things she told me last time, but they hurt more, they pierce deeper if that is possible, and they make me suffer through each second of each minute of each hour of each day, and I wonder if they make her feel happy. I wonder where things changed. I wonder where I started making mistakes, and I wonder what I did wrong. I wonder where she is, where she's going, where I am, where I am going.

The end of thinking always ends with a blackout of sleep, where I wonder if it was bad that I didn't want to wake up. If I woke up, that meant my brain would think more, which always ended with black.

I hated black. I hated blue. I hated the stupid ice cream sandwiches. But I still loved the color red.