The pictures dot the floor, magazine cut-outs. The gorgeous, the skinny, the perfect. Her tape measure, thrown to the ground in disgust, rests on the bed. Twisted sheets and blankets are remnants of her last sleepless night. "Why bother fixing them?" she always says "It will only happen again." The dinner she didn't finish sits on the table beside her stone-cold cup of tea. The scale waits in the corner, worn down from years of abuse. The strong stench of cigarettes lingers throughout the apartment. It's always the same here, but she tells me that it's fine. She tells me not to worry and that she's just stuck in a rut. Late at night I can always hear her music blaring. She sits on the fire escape and dangles her feet over the edge. Looking to the distance, longing for the past. Wishing she could go back to when things were okay. When he would hold her and when things were simple. Praying that someone can love her again, even though nowadays she can't even love herself.