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I was twenty-six years old that year. He has blond hair, a slim figure, a good job, and an apartment on the Upper East Side of New York. In the eyes of others, I may have it all. No one knew that I was quietly falling apart. I don't particularly want to cry, nor do I particularly want to laugh, and I no longer feel anything about the things around me. And every time I lie down and enter the dark void, the chaotic voices in my head stop immediately. It feels good, almost blissful. I began to fall into longer and longer slumbers. Use your cell phone less. Reduce online shopping. Stop socializing. Stop whitening. Stop brushing your hair. Stop plucking hair with tweezers. Shower no more than once a week. Stock up on endless old movies at home. Every time I wake up, I go to the grocery store on the corner to buy two large cups of coffee, and occasionally there is eye irritation. Once I get enough sleep, everything will be fine. My old life would be nothing more than a dream, and I could start over without regrets. Will I become a new person?