Diana has a scar on her left hand, between her first two knuckles.

Diana bites her lips until they bleed.

Diana's legacy is scribbled onto the pages of aging composition notebooks with soft, worn, scarred covers and flimsy bindings. She writes what she feels, what she sees, and what she can't see and can't feel. She takes pictures of bare, sleeping trees in the dead of winter to try and remind herself that there is always rebirth.

Diana wants to mean more to someone than they do to her.

Diana hides her eyes underneath her hair, especially when she cries. She hates to cry, but lives for the temporary numbness afterwards.

Diana hates malls.

Diana likes to imagine that she doesn't live in a generation of teenage depression and psyche-suppressing drugs, (like the pills that she watches her mother pop into her mouth every morning with shaky hands), and one-stop-shopping. She hates that people don't stop to feel the snow fall or listen to the raindrops on the roof just before falling asleep. She hates the rushing, pushing, throbbing, apathetic mass that society has become.

No one ever sees or hears Diana. She is alone.