I glanced at my phone upon receiving a message from Margaret. She would message me from time to time to make small talk. Oh, how I hate small talk. Most of our mutual friends couldn't stand her, and I couldn't either; mostly due to her melodramatic disposition. Despite this, I tried to be nice. She asked how I was, and I responded to say that "I'm surviving," my usual response to that question ever since Laura departed. Margaret said she's drowning, overwhelmed by demanding school work and friends. In addition to this, she told me about how she dislikes who she is and can't help it. I pretended to care, feigned sympathy and asked all the questions someone should in that situation, were it serious. It wasn't serious though, she was always outwardly happy, and that depressed face she wore from time to time was only to add interesting undertones to a boring life. What Margret said reminded me so much of the phrases I used to use, though when I said them, it was genuine. I had good reason to be unhappy, both with who I was and the life I led. It seemed I was always alone, partially by choice, only because I couldn't stand company for so long. I still get laughed at by friends for having been so anti-social. Maybe it started off the same way for me though. In my attempts to empathize with Sofie, I became a misanthrope. Though I'd always been a cynic, I became even less agreeable than before, my outlook became bleak at best. That summer changed everything. I fell for Sofie, clumsily became friends with her over several months, and confided in her as she confided in me. She was an artist, just as I had wished to be. She was far more intriguing than any other I had met, and my affection for her only grew. Every day we would talk of ourselves, of our lives, and anything else that would come up. Every small thing felt like a blessing, any opportunity to speak to her, any glimpse of hope that my devotion was reciprocated. I started to despise the cowardice that prevented me from taking a leap of faith and just telling her of how I felt. Maybe it was reasonable to be a coward, however, because when I did finally gather the courage to tell her, I was rejected. I fully expected that response. Even though there were times when I believed she felt the same, it didn't feel unreal that she didn't. Although it came as no surprise, it was profoundly disappointing.