She stares at her calendar as her hand moves down it, running the pen diagonally down the large white box that represents yesterday. She looks at the other boxes, the ones that too have a smooth slash crossing through them. One thin line to mark the passing of a day. One black mark to show another twenty-four hours, gone. And what has Autumn done in those hours, minutes, seconds that form the day that has just gone by? What has she done, besides breathe? Nothing important, Autumn thinks. Nothing that really matters at all. And isn’t that just a terrible thought, isn’t that just a horrible feeling? To think that you have lived for so long, and have barely anything to show for it? Autumn turns the calendar away. She doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to think about what it is trying to tell her. She’s a coward like that, always has been.
She’s not looking at this positively, she knows. Autumn is not looking at this as an opportunity, as a sign of a better and brighter future. She is not thinking about change, glorious oft-promoted change. No, she is not. Because sometimes she gets sick of making everything positive, always finding the good in things. Sometimes she just wants to see the world as dark and ugly as it is. So she does, this time. And she wonders if this realisation is even more worrisome than her original one, the one inspired by the calendar.