Amelia took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to her 20-year school reunion.

She knew what they were going to say, what they would see

Her life. In pieces.

The death of her younger sister had wrecked her, utterly and entirely. Permanently.

The day Lola left forever was the day that Amelia died. She could no longer bear a smile, not when all that she loved was gone.

It had all happened so quickly. How was she meant to make sense of it all? She didn’t.

Rather, she burrowed herself into a hole so deep, nobody could dig her out. Not that they would’ve. She had no one.

Twenty years later, all Amelia had was a broken marriage, diagnosed depression, and her dream to become a doctor that never took off.

Oh, and raging alcoholism.

So Amelia strutted in, with two canteens hidden in her bra, and her hands shaking uncontrollably as they limply fell next to her frayed sweater.

A few hours previously, she had already decided not to come to the reunion and instead get totally drunk at home—however that plan swerved when she downed three generous pours of vodka.

In her intoxicated haze, she had gotten dressed in mismatched shoes, a stained gray jumper, and tight jeans that she hadn’t washed in two weeks.

Now, she stood before a room of her successful classmates. Hazy amber-brown eyes scoured the floor, her disheveled, ebony hair whipped at every loud blare from the speakers, the lively chatter, and _him_.

Her ex-husband.

This was a horrible idea.

Amelia spun immediately on her heel, except she tripped. Time froze with her heart stopping, and her pale hands shot out for the space in front of her—the food table.

An army of awful crashing noises beat the floor as the red-punch bowl came pummeling towards her—splashing her and her ghastly outfit.

The bright lights of purple and white eddied in her glazed vision. Everything became a blur, all of her thoughts were flashing and burning and an imperceptible tremble ruptured in her lips.

Hundreds, at least it seemed so, of gasps shot out at her. And all the blood rushed to her cheeks.

The door. Make it to the door.

As Amelia shot up, all she heard was the disapproval of her old classmates: the judgement, the laughter, the scoffs, and the gossip.

In her despair, she heard someone murmur, “Is that really Amelia? I barely recognized her.” Through Amelia’s peripheral, she saw many unfriendly faces nod emphatically as another gushed, “Wow, she looks really different.”

Thousands of rude, backhanded comments swarmed her, piercing through like daggers of shame.

She knew they were right, in whatever they were thinking about.

It all reminded her of who she was, who she became: a failure. Not even alcohol would ever let her escape from it. Especially not when alcohol had become her prison.

Sometimes she wondered what things would’ve been like if they were different.