  She is again gone, fictional reader. Here I am again, inert and broken. She says nothing of the pain and doubt she causes, just paints herself the hero and I the villain once again.
Maybe it was I who have been dreaming all along. Maybe she's not the woman I took her for, but I doubt it. I have nothing better to write about then hardship. The pain she's inflicted, this life I lead, my foolishness: It's all here. I want to write about happy things, but cannot muster the simple joys needed to do so. I am so lost.
As the antithesis of my aims in this latest debacle; I doubt she cares. I have been so awful. What will I do, you ask fictional reader? Nothing. There is nothing I can do, but kit up and move out. It's what she's done. Maybe I should just follow her lead. What cowards we both are. She is no more fearless than I. 
