She's staring at the building. It looks the same, it is the same. She's not or maybe she is. Maybe this is who she was all along, and that building was just saving her from herself. But staring never saved anyone so she turns away. She goes back to her empty room. Back to the razors and the pills. She passes the office on the way home. She thinks about going back, thinks about asking for help. But then she doesn't. That night she found an old notebook. She remembered everything she was going to be. And then for the second time that day she nearly threw away her razors. She nearly stopped taking the pills. But then she didn't. And yet again she went to bed high and bleeding. For the last time.

She's staring at the building. It looks different to her now, smaller and less important. Like it's fading away. She smiled at her own disappointment. She hoped this building would reach out and save her. Remind her, maybe, of what she had wanted, what she was giving up. But even this building couldn't save her. So she walked away, walked home, to give up. She passed the office, and for a moment she saw a hand reaching out to her, and a voice telling her she could still save herself. But she didn't want to. That night she sat and hesitated then she didn't. And for the first time in a long time she went to bed high and bleeding. And not for the last time.