She ran because she couldn’t take it. The pressure pushed her over the edge, the spiteful words killed her spirit, the reflection in the mirror broke her heart. She could not understand what she did wrong because she tried so hard. She was almost perfect, and the marginal amount of imperfection she possessed was what drowned her. It was a weight that dragged her to the bottom of the ocean. The slashes that decorated her wrists were carefully hidden by sleeves, bracelets, and lies. For who would suspect her to do anything like that? She was almost perfect. The tears she hid with darkness and smiles would never be noticed, and that was how she intended to keep it. Why should anyone worry about her? She did almost everything right.

Then one day the weight of the world got heavier, the spiteful words became bitterer, and the reflection in the mirror grew more broken. She could not escape the sadness that dragged her under. She was fighting air, but she couldn’t stop the drowning. Down, down, down the anchor pulled her. She lost sight of light and her struggling stopped. For she was almost perfect, and that would never be enough. She gave up. What was life without happiness, love, friendship? It was her life, the one that ran along with her powerless to stop it. She was dragged, bruised, beaten down until the only escape was this: drowning. Her feet touched the bottom, and there was no more light.