A year goes by. He doesn’t show up for my graduation. He doesn’t come when I am hospitalized. He doesn’t say “happy birthday” when I turn eighteen. A year and one day later, I can’t walk, just like he said. I can’t bring myself to leave the bed or eat. I’m not enough. He ruined me. Roman Riviera was right, and I was wrong. I won’t die without Roman Riviera. But sometimes I wish I would.
