Tess pressed her back against the door and threw her head against it. She stared upwards at the ceiling and let loose a breathy sigh. A sigh that should have felt enlightening, but as soon as she inhaled again, the weight of the situation settled itself atop her shoulders once more. She was so irrationally irritable as of late, her subconsciousness getting worked up over the most insignificant things. She felt angry too, but her rage didn't feel as fiery or burn within her like it used to. Before, her anger felt like a hot bubble of barely contained flames that upon release, reduced her opponent to ashes with sharp spears of beautifully crafted sentences. Now, her rage felt... empty. Hollow. Like it was lacking something... lacking heart. This place has sucked the life out of her, like a vibrant flower shriveling to an ugly brown at the end of summer, or a bright painting that fades and dulls with age, the sun bleaching out its colour. Or... or... Tess didn't even have the will to express her emptiness anymore. You know what they say: When it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Only then did Tess realize that she was living her worst nightmare.
She was living a cliché.