I’m tired of feeling like I’m the last correct name on a Starbucks cup.

It’s a shame to think you’ve got the special number, to be the last of a kind, but at the end of the day, you’re just—quite literally—just more of the same. You might even be a special kind of the same, but the same nonetheless.

I love you, but I’m stuck at this coffeeshop I made up to keep me away from my dreams. I’m so sorry.

I hate feeling guilty for thinking that someday I’ll kill myself. Please don’t talk to me about it if you think I need it. It’ll just make me think less of you.