I had thought she'd be the image I wanted to look up to.

Then my defences came crashing down.

Inside of every single independant woman lives a young girl, waiting at the window for her prince.

Waiting, and waiting, and waiting.. but her prince never came. He never does.

He just tears at her voraciously, leaving gaping wounds here and there.

"In fact, I was never even sure you cared" Maybe this happens to us, the weaker sex, of all ages. No matter how independant we are. No matter how agressive we make ourselves out to be.

Maybe the self-doubt will always be there, permenant, irreplacable.

"You broke my heart but never shattered it completely. And that is the cruelest thing to do to somebody. It broke it into one thousand parts. So that piece by piece it flaked off. Like bad paint off a humid Hong Kong wall. Carrying off fragments of the hopeful, optimistic me that you once knew and cared about."

My role model, a lady of strength and independance, has diminished to a fragile weeping girl with one single SMS.