Picture this: me, half-drunk on cheap mortal wine, sprawled across a velvet chair like a fallen queen, declaring to the ceiling beams, “I...

Because the thought that drives me half-mad is this: what if I find you every time.

So here I am, throwing a mini tantrum in prose and calling it wisdom, testing out mortal remedies as if patience will save me.

Apparently, today was the day I learned that being diagnosed with C-PTSD is less credible than a gossip column on Mount Olympus. Let us...