Withered

Maybe I was reveling too much in my own depression to help. That's what I like to think. When I lay in bed until three in the morning without having slept, I like to think that I couldn't have helped her anyway. That there was nothing I could've done at all. It makes me feel less guilty thinking like that, but I'll always wish I would've tried. There had to be a reason she wanted me to be the last person she'd talk to. I had to have meant something to her, I just haven't been able to figure that out yet. She could have possibly loved me and that thought keeps me up at night too.