She was mad. A mad writer spitting up words, vomiting poems, and finding salvation in her rough scribblings. Her days and nights were normal for she wore a mask throughout. A facade for everyone.

"7 billion people, 14 billion faces", she wrote once.
"And you are the king of double-faced people. Most fake." he had replied.
"Oh no. I am a queen!" she had laughed...

She scribbles down everything in her diary, or her blog, or her mind. It is what helps her maintain her sanity. But at moments when you are far, like very very far, she just cannot hold it. I have seen her dying daily, and writing your name with her finger on her palm. I have seen her gasping for air on the most normal of occasions, as if her throat was choking with a word held in, her chest burning with a poem unsaid.

It was you she had ever wanted, always missed, blindly loved. It was you who made her a writer out of a normal, moderately-concerned human-being. You made her over-sensitive. You killed her!