“In some ways, it was nice to be the one leaving, instead of the one being left.”
I wrote this on a whim instead of signing my name.
That should make a good signature.
The postcard slipped down the hatch, hit the bottom of the postbox, and something big fell off my shoulders. But beneath it, a dark life had started festering a long time ago.
Melancholy: the ghost of all the things I could h...