I am in my room, in a fine line between frustration, procrastination and acceptance. The turbulent wind hungs unto my skin, urging me to put on some clothes. I just got out from my bath-slash-therapeutical session with my own mind, thinking millions of things at once.
I left the world I'm supposed to be in right at this single moment to take matters of myself into my own hands because appparently, my buzzing mind can't seem to shut the fuck up and it kept on shouting, "Adri! Adri!" EVERY. DAMN. TIME.
I need to move on. I need to recuperate. I need people to know my own side. And I need to forget everything and force my mind to turn my attention into the things that actually matter.
To point things out, I'm not your heroine who's overflowing with kindness, bravery and wisdom. I'm not the person you expect me to be (yes, readers have expectations of their characters), I'm a foul-mouthed bitch with ambitious dreams and protruded chin. I am not the girl you wish to get morales to. If you are expecting to gain anything from reading this, better close it as early as now.
I'm not doing this for anyone anyway. I'm doing this for myself because I'm so done with crying over a non-existential heartbreak and the only way to get rid of it is by stopping everything all together.
What I could only offer is my story. Nothing more and nothing less.