The Bitter Ends Of Love

getting over it, the five stages of grief model marks universal stag

ul that is way too sensitive for this cold ugly world, I have always felt things de

ee the outside world. My mind kept telling my body to breathe, you are going to be okay; you have been this scared, uncomfortable and anxious and you survive, breat

ourage me failed. She keeps saying I am only sick, and e

sion, pain, overthinking, emptiness and a cry for help. Who would have known Chole would die through sleeping, who knew Chole would never wake up that night? What if I also sleep into death? Drive into death with my

dance, walk or talk. I feel like the normal

sought to shield itself from the impending danger. My hands shook uncontrollably, an involuntary tremor that betrayed my inner turmoil, as fear an

struggled to draw in air amidst the suffocating grip o

nd the room suspiciously paranoid that the horror might have followed me here, looking towards the window and watched as the sun

decided to go outside my room, I wanted to be

e, so I avoided it but for how long? I was about to fall into thought when I heard nurses screaming nearby, the ambulance driver rushed insid

s, with a cute face and clean cut. I watched as

atment and I took the opportunity to ask about the new patient, but she only said he was fine. Nurses are al

? She might be given extra allowance for evil mirroring me,

age witches I shivered. I used to do this so much with chole, part of the routine I can’t help but mis

f my room, I was tired of being tied to this bed, going out might make me feel better. I went to the emer

nt to monitor someone I barely knew, but either w

turn to my hospital room and I bumped into someone. He was a young aged charming guy, with a muscular, tall, body type, curly hair and a caramel

ds my hospital room like I was being followed. I watched Mr. Strange for days without him knowing it and when he got out,

rrassed, blushing and tapping my head, wha