Complete and total exhaustion.

That's how I feel after reading this letter.

My eyes are puffed up from underneath, I can feel the dried tear tracks down my checks, meeting at the tip of my chin. Mascara is smudged on the back of my hand. An overwhelming desire to fall asleep and forget everything engulfs me like a wave.

The letter is laying next to me, folded twice so it takes on the look of a brochure. But this is no advertisement to visit the Bahamas.

The words on the page swirl in my head.

"... I question if abandoning you was the right thing."

"... you have no reason to loathe him."

"I hoped you'd stand up for me."

"My greatest struggle is finding someone to live for."

"I always saw us as being friends until the bitter end - a pair of famous writers..."

"I felt light, like a hollowed log. My heart didn't seem to have a beat."

And the line that made me stop, like a slow motion video of a pen in a silent classroom falling to the floor, sped up at the last second to hit the ground and break the silence, break it like glass, like a fragile life.

"I simply tell you this in the unfortunate case of my self-inflicted demise."

And I sit there, asking myself one thing:

Am I holding a suicide note in my hands?