She said her life was perfect. She'd smile at him, a twinkle in her eye, she'd be the shoulder her friends cried on. Her perfect grades and reliable advice were in constant motion, and she played the role of the base without a flaw from the outside.
The inside was covered in smoke. The pack of cigarettes got a little bit lighter in her dresser every time she walked into her house. Her calm passion melted off as she was hit with a wave of stress as she entered the door.
The worst part, the part killing her, was that she couldn't help.
As her sister layed in an overly white room, strapped to false life, her father's tone grew a little more on edge, her mother's words a little more scarce.
And so she lived a fake life. Provided a base for all but herself, meanwhile she crumbled on the inside. Every second life was closer to its edge, and she screamed inside until her voice went silent and the world rang with her sorrow tinted vision.
Her life was not perfect.