It was surprisingly easy, going back to all that was old.

I had thought there would at least be some guilt involved in it, or at least some shame, but there was none of that. I just left my life with Hashirama and started ruining the one I lived on my own.

As soon as I closed the apartment door behind me to go for my "walk", the decision was made within me. It was amazing to me how the abstinence could come back to me from one second to the next just by said decision. I knew I would drink. I knew I would snort. And that made me tremble and sweat all over. 

I went to a luxury hotel and booked a suite. I immediately went to the bar and chugged lemon vodka directly from the flask. Never had I thought you could feel so thirsty for the bittersour drink. I wasn't used to alcohol anymore, so it went straight up to my brain, making it feel as if though a helminth was gnawing its way through my brain. I balanced that out by snorting a line made from a bag of the white powder I had bought on my way here.

Then I went to the bathroom, which had a huge bathtub standing in the middle of the grey stone room. I filled it up with scorching hot water and a bath bomb that was scented with vanilla and green grape that stood next to it, and let the rush the alcohol and cocaine had given me drown.

It wasn't until two hours later, when the water was only lukewarm and I was freezing, that I allowed myself to finally feel all the feelings I had kept at bay until that point.

And when I let it in, it crushed me underneath its weight, and I started crying.

I cried for what Hashirama had been for me, and for what I had been for Hashirama. I cried over the perfect love story between M and H having been lost. I cried over the fact that Hashirama desired a child, something I could never give him. I cried over the fact that Hashirama had chosen a man just because he was afraid of what a woman could give him, even if that thing was what he desired most of all in the world, even more than me. I cried over the fact that he had loved someone else before me so much, it still caused him pain to this day.

I rose up from the bath soaked with bath salt and tears.

If I had had to work for money, maybe that would have helped me. But I did not, and so had no motivation to keep myself on track. In fact, I desired to ruin my life.

I wondered if it was self-harm, but the thought angered me, provoked me to unreasonable amounts. No, it wasn't self-harm. I knew I was doing it to harm Hashirama. I got back into drinking and snorting. I hardly went out of my apartment. I hardly ate. I was contacted by my university several times until finally, I lost my place. 

I created a profile on the dating app where me and Hashirama had met out of spite, with the same picture and profile, but this time, I was reckless. I swiped yes on every man that looked like a fuckboy and wrote to them who I was. When they said they didn't believe me, I didn't feel sad because Hashirama had believed me. Instead, I used the situation to my advantage by sending them a nude.

It had exactly the effect I wanted, for some of these men, at least. They threatened to sell the photos to paparazzi unless I gave them exactly what they wanted, which I did. I sold myself just to punish Hashirama, to make myself untouchable to him, to make him disgusted by me. I let these men fuck me until I was bruised, on the outside and within, inside my body but also inside my soul.

But they could never make me bleed the way Hashi had. 

I realised how badly I had fucked myself up one day when I woke up sober. I wasn't sober because I had refrained from substances willingly; it was because the substance had knocked me out for so long, I had had time to sober up in my sleep. Or my unconsciousness, whichever it was.  

Years had passed since I had left Hashirama, and there had been nothing but radio silence from him. I felt like reading his last message sent three years ago, but couldn't since my phone had been stolen by a man I had sold sex to. As I looked at myself in the mirror, however, I looked even further beyond the few years between Hashirama and now. 

I was thinner than ever. My hair had not been cut for all these years, and was tousled beyond saving. I didn't remember last time I had a shower, and I had drooled toothpaste on my T-shirt.

How did I let it become like this? 

I felt tears running down my face out of sadness of how I had treated my body. 

I got to work with my life. 

I bought a new flat in a skyscraper. I hired an interior designer to come and furnish it. I called the porter and had him buy me four big bags of groceries, and filled my big fridge up with fruits and vegetables, bread and cheeses and jams, yoghurts of different flavours and almond milk, hummus and salmon and beans. I filled the freezer with frozen berries and vegetables, and the pantries with couscous and pasta and rice cakes and dark chocolate and oat biscuits and crackers. Then, I cooked some pasta and made a pasta salad with tomatoes, cucumber, olives, feta cheese and beans and had that with some bread. 

Feeling full on food for the first time in years, I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth with my electric toothbrush twice, flossed and used some mouthwash I was very good at using when I lived with Hashirama. 

Then, I just took the kitchen scissors and cut off the big tangle that was my hair. I didn't cut a shape; I just need to be able to wash it properly. I showered for two hours, washing my hair four times with shampoo, scrubbing and shaving and then scrubbing again. I switched the temperature from scolding hot to icy cold and back again. When I was done, I was so clean I could hardly speak. 

Then, I called Fabiano the fashion photographer, the one who had taken pictures of me and Hashirama all of those years ago.

"I need a hair dresser in New York that can come home to me and cut my hair now. Preferably gay."

"Are you looking for a new boyfriend?" Fabiano asked.

"No. They're just better at cutting hair."

He sent me one over, and after much nagging from his side, he cut my hair into a short K-popish style with a side part I never in a million years would have thought I would like, but it suited my face well. 

Then, the coming months, I got to work on myself. First of all, I got a lip piercing just for the hell of it. Then, I did a sleeve on my left arm that I had longed for for years but haven't been able to do because of modelling, and promised myself I'd do if I got sober and didn't plan on letting the modelling industry own me anymore, which I had decided was now. The tattoo was in crisp black and white, with a woman's face with a butterfly covering her mouth, a skull missing half its lower face, a wolf with flames for eyes, and a lion rising up from a rose. The tattoo didn't have a meaning other than me being in complete control of my body, and it was a beautiful piece of art I could now carry with me forever.

I went to the gym five times a week. I ate three meals and two snacks each day. I won't even tell you how much protein powder I consumed; I was ashamed of the stereotype I depicted. I built some weight back on, both muscle and fat, and got a lot of energy back. 

Then, I contacted my university, and after having explained the situation, they gave me my place back.

So I went back and continued my studies to become a nurse.

I had nobody to come to my graduation to congratulate me; I had been too busy keeping myself in check to get friends. As I stood in the line of nursing students, I saw the others smile and wave at their family and friends. But I had nobody to smile and wave to. I found myself looking for Hashi in the audience, dreaming that he would have come, but then I reminded myself that I had been the one who left him. The thought saddened me deeply. 

Even so, I think I was the happiest one there. I shook the hand of the principal, and as I hugged my diploma to my chest, a tear ran down my cheek.

This education meant so much to me. I disconnected me from the world that had caused me so much suffering, and it disconnected me from it permanently. It showed me I had it within me to turn my life around from something detrimental to something amazing, to something I loved. And I had done it all by myself.

When I was about to leave the ceremony, I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. One stupid part of me thought it would be Hashi, for just the fraction of a second, having come to congratulate me after the ceremony, but who it actually was was also good.

It was a group of several nursing students, now made nurses, and they were all holding one flower each. And when they offered it to me, I realised that I had gained friends, and that those friends had together made a bouquet of flowers for me.

I cried when I hugged them.