I’ve come to terms with the fact that I might be obsessed with dying. Not that I want to die, but that I prepare for it at every turn. I think about how depressing it would be for my parents and friends if something were to happen. I’ve rehearsed what my last words would be if I had the chance to choose them.
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It’s funny — every time I’d go, I only really thought about my own future, on the things that laid ahead. On the new experiences, the new people, the new environments. It never occurred to me that elsewhere, someone else was trying to fill the gaps I used to fit into so effortlessly.