Why fall in love if I fall out? Why get high if eventually everyone comes down? Why play the game if it ain't fair? Why talk to God if I ain't got any proof he's even there? And why say hi if I gotta say bye someday? And why get close if I know my heart could break?

Can't see the good in all the bad Can't make me happy when I'm sad I blame the world I'm a glass-half-empty kinda girl Can't see the silver in the lines Can't make the best of a bad time I blame the world I'm a glass-half-empty kinda girl

"i’m worried about you."

If she had even the remotest belief that she was capable of comprehending even the darkest sense of humor, then his words might have been hilarious to her. Was it something about the way that she wore her hair? Most of it down, gathered at the nape of her neck in a loose hairband rather than her signature high, tight ponytail that she wears when she is fighting and getting down to business? Or was it the fact that she hadn't washed her hair in days, the usual strands of blonde being several shades darker and the ends beginning to fray as a result of the lack of care shown to them, with loose strands hanging in her face? For someone whose entire wardrobe consisted of pastel pink, why did her clothes not appear to coordinate or match in any particular way? Was it due to the fact that her wardrobe wasn't color-coordinated? Or the fact that Betty couldn't even remember the last time she had managed to drag herself out of bed long enough to force herself to attempt a load of laundry when the facilities were several floors away from the relative safety of her dorm room. She wondered what specifics exactly had him concerned about her. Still, she also felt a familiar apathy to the way his eyes seemed to linger longer than they should in an attempt to convey the seriousness of his worry about her.

Since she hadn't been able to make the trip for several weeks prior to his visit, she knew she was supposed to feel apologetic and possibly embarrassed about how she looked. Somewhere inside her, she knew she was supposed to handle these things.

When so much needed to be seen firsthand and in person where she couldn't change the subject and put on a forced fake happiness for his benefit, phone calls did little to convey her deteriorating mental health. Instead, she needed to be there in person. It was far too simple for her to train the pitch of her voice, to sound excessively upbeat, and to lie about plans she had with friends, claiming how busy she was and how she had to run to meet up with them in order to get him off the phone more quickly. In contrast, he had just stepped out of crowded and noisy bars with actual friends of his own instead of imaginary made-up friends like hers. Even though he was physically present and holding her hand while telling her he was concerned, Betty could not feel anything at all. Despite the fact that she was aware of the fact that she was supposed to care, she simply did not. Even when he recognized something was wrong, she rarely allowed him to broach the subject. However, now that he was here and in person, it was much more unavoidable; however, she didn't even have enough energy to even want to hide anything from him anymore.

It was only a matter of time before he found out that she had been skipping classes entirely and instead sleeping for hours at a time. She hardly ever even got out of bed or left her room for food, let alone for any social interaction or productive strides for her education. When he did find out, he was furious. He demanded to know why she was acting this way. For someone who is typically so neat and particular, even her dorm room had become a cluttered, disorganized mess; it was an outward manifestation of the struggling chaos she was experiencing internally; however, no amount of sleep seemed to give her enough energy to want to tackle either obstacle. In spite of the lies she'd been trying to convince him off for weeks, her unmade bed served as a safe haven, and the only natural companion she had was her laptop, which she used to watch Netflix on her television. Betty had no idea whether or not he had ever believed her in the first place, and even though she now doubted that he had, she didn't care enough to even try to continue living a lie.
Her parents were not yet aware of the severity of the situation, but disclosing this information to them at this time would not be appropriate before they were updated on their daughter's condition. The sunken shadows beneath her eyes told of a tiredness that consumed her entirely and without mercy or regard, not one that could be quelled by any number of hours of restful sleep. Her eyes, which were ordinarily bright and full of life, appeared hollow, empty, and lifeless. Even throughout the last few weeks since he'd seen her, her already diminutive frame had become even more emaciated. One of the contributing factors was the secretly stashed orange bottle of pills she kept handy, even though the supplied number of medications dwindled, and she'd stopped taking them altogether until she could find someone else on campus to assist her in replenishing her stock. It was one of the many secrets she had begun concealing from him over the course of the previous few months. The fresh scars on the palms of her hands were another one of the secrets she had begun keeping from him while she kept the sleeves of her sweater pulled down over her hands and balled into her fists as her own personal suit of armor.