Shattered screens replicate the hearts of those around me.
“It pains us to watch you do this to yourself.”
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Their words ring like sirens in my ears. My hands shake, body quakes, my legs give out and I’m on the ground.
Struggling to catch my breath he returns my phone with sorrow in his dark eyes for Michael was in my place the month prior. His patience is endless, his voice stern as he attempts to calm me. My phone screen is shattered. I press the lock button and my background mocks me.
‘I am the designer of my own catastrophe.’ Black and white neon lights spell it out tauntingly. It’s true; I brought this upon myself. My phone is broken, like me. The cracks in my persona, in my composure, coming out of the shadows and into the light of the street lamps. The lines of the pavement and patterns on the walls of the café bend and blur through my tears flowing from my bright eyes.