Thursday morning dawned, grey and miserable, a perfect reflection of my mood. I was still on the sofa, a duvet wrapped around me like a shroud, staring at the same spot on the wall I'd been staring at for the past twelve hours. Emma was in the kitchen, the clatter of coffee cups and the hiss of the espresso machine a jarring intrusion into my silent world of self-pity.
She came in with two mugs, her face a mixture of concern and exasperation. "I'm not letting you marinate in your own misery today," she said, her voice firm. "You're going to have a shower, we're going to go for a walk, and you're going to stop acting like your life is over."
"It is over," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep and despair. "The dream is dead. I'm a failure."
"You're not a failure," she said, her voice softening. "You're just a drama queen. A very handsome, very talented drama queen, but a drama queen nonetheless."
