Someday someone will come along or something will happen, which will be the last thing that would tip her off. Someday she wouldn't care what happened, who did what, what others said, whether she hurt anyone's feelings, she wouldn't care anymore, and while that sounded like a great plan a lot of times, that wasn't living. At least not for her. She would stop existing. And she wouldn't even care.

And she was afraid, because irrespective of how much she tries to keep it under lock and key, she knew she couldn't always do that.

She felt it creeping out whenever she was depressed, the feeling that no one cared, that she was just another piece in this puzzle that is life, a piece that no one cared about, a piece so small, that it didn't make a difference.

And once that point hit the mark, anger came in. Why should she bother? With anything or anyone. The promise of taking off and living in a place where all that mattered was her, where she could ignore others feelings, only for this to go two ways.

Either someone would ask for her help, and she could never say no, and she would fall back into the same old routine of sharing and helping.

Or she would get lonely. Heartbreakingly astonishingly lonely. The kind where even books or TV shows can't fill the gaping hole in your chest. Where it might look good for sometime, for it to all crumble down later.

The thing to wonder about is the fact that both of these paths led to the same conclusion, depression. It would come trickling in either immediately or slowly, like a predator about to catch their prey, calculating the best way to hunt and kill.

And the circle continued, never breaking. It took breaks, times when there was a ray of sunshine in the darkness around her, and she would walk towards it, only for the light to snuff out just as she was about to reach it.