7:01 p.m. She was left alone in her room, this rather messy room that was nothing compared to the mess in her head; so many thoughts and emotions that overwhelmed her. Too young to understand and too old to cry, she was torn between the fear of tomorrow and the excitement of leaving this past that haunted her. Lost between two universes that were largely building, she began to wonder about herself, about life, about people. If one thing was of course for her, it was that she was not happy within these four walls, hiding her tears in the sheets and screaming at night about things never written down. In her solitude, however, she found solace; the pleasure of being alone in her sadness, the absences of "why are you crying?" "hold back" "be strong". She was so sensitive, a fragile flower and yet no one knew it. They didn't know how much she had cried that month and they would be too worried if he ever found out. With a low cry, she cried out for help but the sound of her voice was muffled. The impression of not counting, a huge void in the heart. So my worst nights are made: of illusions, addictions and ruthless figures of styles. My life is a lie. A little word of kindness, a compliment ... nothing. What would I have done without him? People who show us from time to time that we matter to them and who value what we are makes so much of a difference. In a cold bed, she snuggled up. The rain was falling in large drops, drowning the sound of her crying. His sight troubled by streams of tears ... Pain therefore comes to inhabit my whole being. And what sadness, my heart beats. Be mine and make me yours.