I don't want to be saved, she whispered that night. I just want more pain...

Paper is meant for writing.
Pens are meant for writing.
But instead she drew so hard into herself it ripped her paper, and the paper flew away like airplanes in strips.
Now she's just a thin piece, crumpled and torn; only part of her remains, and it's the sad part.
Yet she doesn't want to cry, because she'll wet herself, and then she's hurt for good.
She doesn't want to be hurt for good, she just wants to be hurting.

So she lets herself blow away in the wind, and doesn't try to catch the paper she should've written a love letter on--or, at least, drawn a sun.