I can’t read the books that I picked up, fell in love with, and took home. I can’t read their pages, filled with love and torn romances, battered hearts and sad smiles, unmet glances and one-armed hugs. I can’t read about some christmas love adventure or how two best friends finally end up together. I can’t read a blog post of how you’re a book and you’ll meet three types of amazing people, because I’ll come up with a fourth person who neglects you. I can’t even read textbooks, because they remind of what I’m trying to avoid. And what I’m trying to avoid is all these words that are strung into happy endings, reminding me of how it was supposed to be.