Even the adorable practice video from my favourite girl group is unable to make me crack a tiny smile. I must be worse than miserable if that’s the case. My mind swirls with endless questions and baseless assumptions. I heave a sigh as CO2 threatens to obliterate my system.

 Short, quick breaths. Short quick breaths. Short calm breaths. Short calm breaths. Short slow breaths. Slow breaths. Slow breaths.

I struggle to maintain my breathing pattern as my heart carefully maintains its regular workload. I’ve been holding my breath again, clearly a sign of intense stress and anxiety. I breathe into my palm as I return to the past events of the day.

Clear blue sky, lounging on the bench, a bag is left open, a pack of cigarettes. Bottles emptied, shotglasses full, clinking of glass, the table is lull.

I’m troubled, deeply troubled. The knowledge of my little sister smoking, my social inadequacy, and my difficulty dealing with alcohol drives me to the edge. Red eyes buldge, a splash of water, the faucet running, it flows asunder.

My faith in humanity is broken, my pride injured. Woe to me, a pitiful creature I must be.

As I wallow in sorrow and self-loathing, the phone rings incessantly. I slip it out of my pocket and slide to answer.

“Hello” I barely let out.

“Yoona” With that, my walls crumble, my dam breaks and a river flows.

“Shhh, it’s alright. Just let it out. I’ll be here with you the whole time.” The r