February 4, 2018

Tom gathered his belongings and bounded into the night. Tossing garments left and right, he skipped directly into the river. His laugh of triumph snuffed, he gained the satisfaction of peacefully drowning. His body rotated like a torpedo in the swift current. Back in his room, the crumpled scrap of paper revealed its sad message. It read ‘Dear Tom, it’s not you. It’s me.’

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