This can't be happening! It felt like a bad dream. How many times had she naively imagined– no fantasized about– Simon Sharpe suddenly reappearing in her life? It was the principal scene that had replayed over and over in her obsessive mind. She wanted him so badly. Oh, not anymore, but during the worst years of her depression. She was always, in her mind, overcome with joy and hope.
Now look at me! Under fluorescent lighting, her image in the bathroom mirror wasn't flattering. Her face was green and mottled, her hair hung in lank, ratty strands pasted to her damp brow and cheeks. Her eyes... she could hardly stand the darkness she saw there. Seeing Simon again– she was coming apart, experiencing some kind of relapse– a freak anxiety attack. She still felt weak, sweaty and chilled. Actually physically sick, despite having already emptied the contents of her stomach. This was no dream. And instead of thrills what she felt was sheer terror.
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