I have been through hell and back in the last eight months, and now here I sit, on this bed, alone. I’ve spent my entire life planning and scheduling, organizing and anticipating, yet here I am with nothing but mascara-stained cheeks and broken plans. Not even broken—none of them ever had enough backing in the first place to end up broken. I don’t have a clue where my life is headed. I don’t have a college to be in, a place to belong in, or even the romantic notion of love from the books I’ve always loved and used to believe in. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing with my life.
