I don't know when I realised.

It doesn't get better.

The pain, the stress, the never ending feeling of hopelessness and despair. I just knew one day that I just didn't want to be in another day.

And I know I've felt that way for such a long time. Tired of life.

Having clinical depression and anxiety is one of the worst things anyone could ever have to face. The absolute worst.

And I had- no, have no outlet.

I didn't have that one friend or that one person I could call when I was feeling like this. When I was certain that I wanted to end it all.

I had no one.

I've never been the best at expressing how I feel, and neither have most of the people I've come in contact with.

Hey, I'm Quinn, I'm a pretty girl with a messed up view of herself and the world.

Sorry, Quinn.

But sorry has never been and will never be enough.

God, I just wanted to die.

I wanted, I desperately wanted to do anything but this dreary existence I was stuck in for the world's benefit.

No one understood.

And I was dead sure I was done trying to make them.

Everything seemed like an elaborate waste of time. Like a parody. Except, no one was laughing.

I was so done with with everything. Even the tear-soaked suicide letter I held in my trembling hands.

I doubt if they would even read it. My boyfriend, my sister, my best friend.

I doubt if they'd come across my last words before I put an end to my miserable existence.

Crumpling the letter, I lit a flame to it, watching it crumble to dust before leaving my apartment complex, my hair sticking to my damp face.

I knew what I was about to do.

No one could stop me.

Not even the kind stranger looking at me in concern.

Too little too late, I walked into the onslaught of traffic, smiling at the truck that would bring me death.

The last thing I saw, before I met my maker, was the wide, frantic eyes of the familiar stranger.

His knowing eyes.