She was only fifteen, and she died. A fifteen...no. A sixteen year old girl with weird hair and glasses and was overweight. Normal family, normal home. Just lost her grandmother, and just failed a subject in school. Trying so hard to please everyone.

And failing.

Every time she tried to do something right, she'd fail.

She'd cry, but eventually crying wasn't enough. She stopped crying. There was no catharsis in it. Her friends worried, but she didn't talk to them either. She smiled and said she was fine, or said she was tired. Tried to be the best friend she could, but somehow...somehow. She was still failing.

Even at that.

So she stopped crying. Stopped talking. Started lying.
She'd describe it (if only to herself) as slowly and quietly drowning in a pool of desperation. She looked fine, sounded fine.

In reality, she could've screamed. She wanted to. Badly. She never did though. She kept herself in control, allowing the tears to come out when she was alone. And after awhile, they stopped coming altogether. She felt their presence, but could not feel them on her cheeks.

It was normal, she reasoned. But she hadn't cried in months. Months. She didn't cry out for help. She didn't reach her hand out. She didn't want to be weak; no. She wanted to prove that she was stronger than those who needed help.

Her mother was difficult to please. Her father too. And she was really trying hard to please them by seeming stronger than she was. She tried to be strong for her friends-insisted they shared their problems before she shared hers, tried to help in any way, always listened.

And yet, of all of this, there was no catharsis.

And now she's dead.