Author’s note: Sally Michaels is a fictional character, and this story is fiction as well. None of the characters in this story are real, nor are the places or businesses that will be mentioned. Any similarities with reality are mere coincidences.
My name is not relevant, and neither is his. We were just another couple, just another disaster ready to happen.
But for the purpose of storytelling, I'll tell you that my name is Sally. Most of my friends just call me Sal though, or Salt. You can call me whatever you want, I don't give a shit.
And what about him? Well, I need to keep his identity concealed or else he'll sue me, after all, he's kind of famous, well known in the industry. But I need to give him a name... So let's go with John Doe, and I'll just call him John from now on.
You might be wondering why I'm risking writing this if he could start legal actions against me for diffamation, but the truth is, that I don't intend on publishing.
Then why are you writing this, Sal? Well, let me fucking get there, and I'll tell you, okay? My psychologist highly recommended I stopped bottling up my feelings and started talking about them. But everytime I tried to talk to her, I got a fucking panic attack or started punching shit and kicking her furniture around. She didn't like that, so she suggested I do what "I'm good at" and write our story down. Whatever.
If I don't, she'll probably get me locked up in a crazy house or something, so I'm going to give this a go. We'll see where this gets me. To make sure I don’t cheat and stop writing, I decided to upload this story here. I know no one will read it, after all, I don’t even follow anybody on this platform, I just kind of use it as a notebook. But I've always liked reading apps, and it's a good way to have my files in the cloud and write on the go.
Anyways, my psychologist said to "really go back to that place where I was back then, and see the story through the eyes of the old Sally." A bucket load of bullshit if you ask me, but I'm giving her a chance, because she's the only one willing to help me.
Before I get started, I'll just tell you who I am. She said to do that too. Well, not who I am, but who I was.
Who was Sally Michaels back then? I was a girl fresh out of uni, seeking a career in the thing I loved the most: writing. I was naive, young and believed in love at first sight as well as perfect happy endings. I believed in living happily ever after. I used to read books day and night, and I had read all the young adult books you could think of. And I believed in those endings, I believed I would meet a boy and get my crazy movie-like love story. I was just fucking retarded.
Okay, I'll try to get started… This will be a hard story to write and to read though, I know that, not only because it's my story, but because it's full of broken hearts and shattered illusion. Of toxic bonds and false hopes. It reeks of anxiety, depression, drugs, alcohol and abuse. It emanates toxicity.
If you're not discouraged yet, then go ahead, do read along. Grab a box of tissues though, there's a chance you might need it.
I know I will by the time this is over.
Note: Hey! Thanks so much for reading this far! I hope you enjoyed this little intro.
Do let me know if you liked it💕