It’s midnight. I’m 21 years old. I’m still afraid of commitment. Still afraid I’ll end up alone. Still sorry for not knowing how to handle things. Still taking up too much space. Still eating only one meal a day. Still wishing I were someone else. Still haven’t let anyone in. Still haven’t learned how to put down roots. Still joke about suicide too much. Still a compulsive liar. Still waiting for someone to stick around. I’m still here. Barely.