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CLAIR'S END DIDN'T SEEM TO FIT HOW she'd pictured it.

There were no black clouds roving over her head, no bullets embedded into her skull, no sweet final smile or sinful touch piercing through her chest. There were no seconds left to describe the moments believed to be the last of her life; instead, it was recorded through colours you cannot find until you're in a place transcended from time, stealing all thoughts as effectively as depression stole her light.

In the end, she'd become an empty canvas locked away in a gallery—written without writing and expressed without expressions.

Admittedly, her end to be so disappointing, no more than eighteen years worth of blood streaming through her arteries to become reduced to water, was almost anticlimactic.

However, she did not leave without touching upon you the most important lesson: to breathe was not to live, to exist was not an excuse to be, and to have a mouth was not to speak empty sentences.

Unfortunately, this epiphany was short-lived for a dying girl who couldn't put effect into her words.

Such is the irony of Clair's final life.

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