When I tried asking her why she was here in this safe and sterile hell, surrounded by mentally ill people while she had such a sunny disposition, she told me that she needed a break.

From what, I didn't know.

That was her first week away from the world she used to know, the world she wanted to leave, the world she didn't want to be a part of.

She talked about "The Real World" a lot during group therapy. I was one of the only people who knew what the hell she was talking about while everyone else was stuck in a bubble of, "the universe revolves around me."

If only they understood. Maybe then they could have saved her from "The Real World"... maybe even from herself.

The longer she stayed tucked safely away from the world she hated, the more her glossy outer shell began to break. First, she started to isolate herself away from everybody else, even me. Then she stopped talking to anyone that wasn't me. Then she stopped talking in general.

It wasn't until the day that we found her dead in her room at the hospital, her wrists slit by scissors she stole from the arts and crafts room, that anyone besides me even noticed how low she had fallen.

At least she died in a world that accepted her for who she really was.