A piece of paper landed on my book, brought over by a gust of wind. You could tell the author had beautiful handwriting, but had trouble putting this one together. I quickly scanned it, and started crying. Like a sad cliché, I never cry. I did not cry when my first real girlfriend broke up with me. I did not cry when my grand parents died. But this letter broke me down. I saw the words storage and smaller apartment and not necessary anymore. After reading it twice, and looked for keywords trying to determine the intended recipient, because if they have not read it yet, they would need to. The sad part is in a city of three million, it could be anyone, or at least anyone roughly my age. Or it could potentially be me in about year, or a very good friend right now. And it tore me apart.