She looked in the mirror and mumbled strings of thought together, however incoherent they might be. A frail, greying figure looked back, too young to have looked the way she did, and she knew it.

She saw the haunted look in her eyes, the veins etching themselves like tattoos under her skin. She saw a shell of her former self. They colorless body stood almost still in the mirror, the only movement coming from her chest when she breathed in shallow breaths, like the task had become too painful for her to bear.

The boy stood behind her, horrified.

"I am a shell," she spoke quietly.

The boy said nothing.

"I am afraid," she whispered again.

"Of what?" He questioned back. His voice was strong, clear, assertive. Her voice was raspy, weak, and monotone. 

"Myself," she stated in a bland tone before collpasing to the floor.

                                                  - Except of a book I'll never write