“Here’s to an amazing Sunday” she tweets. Two favourites and one retweet later, a reply “What was so special about today?” lights up on her phone’s screen. It’s cracked. Like her life.

She locks the screen and tucks herself in to bed. She feels uncomfortable. The pillow is slightly damp – damp from two hours of sobbing followed by two hours of a silent cry. She tosses and she turns. She cannot fall asleep. She feels empty. She hates herself.

She hates herself for being dark skinned.

She hates herself for having no confidence.

She hates herself for her fat thighs.

She hates herself for being socially awkward.

She hates herself for having zero friends.

But despite all of that, her Sunday, of course, was an amazing Sunday. It was the only Sunday after eons that she didn’t slit her thighs out of self-contempt. It was the only Sunday someone had called her a “friend”. The Facebook reply “Thanks, friend” meant a lot to her. It was the only Sunday that the local pool was closed and she wasn’t forced to go swimming, only to be jeered at when she wore her swimsuit. It was the only Sunday she didn’t feel as sad as she did the past Sundays.

Well, was it really amazing? Hmm, it was, if feeling ugly all day sounds fun. It was, if feeling shitty was the shit. It was, if having no friends to talk to felt like being on top of the world. It was, if the thought of going to school the next day made you sweat.

The clock hits 12 am.

Tick.

Tock.

Seven hours more until she walks to the bus halt to be given fixed looks at. She sighs. “It’s not going to be that bad,” she lies to herself. Shes tosses again.

It’s not going to be that bad. She will go to school tomorrow. She will sit at the corner seat on the third row so she doesn’t get noticed. She will get picked last for teams during PE. She will feel half dead from the inside tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that too. She will feel half dead forever until death breathes out some relief because she has no one to talk to.Because people like her have no one to open up to. Because people laugh when you tell them you’re not happy. Because no one wants to be seen talking to that weird girl who never smiles.

That weird girl who never smiles wants to smile, but she can’t. That weird girl is not happy. That weird girl is not weird – she suffers from depression. That’s right. Depression. But that’s not a big deal at all. It’s just a mental illness. It will pass. It’s probably just a phase or she’s just doing it for attention. But who cares, anyway?

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