She's lying in bed. She's been there for a week. She can't move far. She's only been eating noodles, apples, and dark chocolate these past days. She's trying to stay positive. Thinking "this hour, during this past hour it wasn't horrible to live". When she's gotten worse, it's been "this minute wasn't awful". Her hands are swollen and sore, and her kneecaps are twice the size they should be. She's 21 years old.

 

She's getting bored. To try to fight the boredom, to make the time pass without internet, cellphone, books, or friends, she starts writing. Her fingers protest as she foces them to push down on the keyboard and write well chosen words. She's typing slowly at first, then faster. She's angry. Angry at her body, angry because it took away the life she should have been living. She's typing furiously. Words become sentences. Sentences become pages. Pages become chapters. Chapters eventually turn into a book. And the book gets published.

 

She's no longer angry.