#thighgap (My Dark Library Book 2)

by Chandler Morrison

There was a time, I think, I knew what affection felt like. In my past life, when I was someone else. But the memory of it is so distant and formless that it’s become intangible. I’m not certain I’d recognize it for what it was if I were to feel it now. I suppose this should make me feel sad, but there’s only a vast emptiness that doesn’t feel like anything.

I know the panic is still there, reeking of chemicals, lingering in the recesses of my brain. Rattling against its cage. Struggling against its restraints. Shrieking muted cries into a black void.

I never have enough energy to be out for more than a few hours at a time.

Many times, I’d cry while I ate, looking at the thin bodies of my classmates in the sexy pictures they posted on Instagram.

Back in my apartment, I check my phone for texts. There are none. I check Instagram and Facebook for messages—nothing. The unread emails in my Gmail inbox are nothing but spam.

I can’t remember being happy for an extended period of time.