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I'm doing a writing assignment where we have to take a starting sentence from a book and make our own story from it for school and I have no idea of it's good so I'm posting it here to see peoples opinions

Tw: implied suicide

In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people angry and been widely regarded as a bad move. I think I had been one of those angry people, and i just didn't realise it before. I'm walking right now on a path I've walked many times before, autumn foliage falls to concrete pavement like hot flames to ash. The blazing leaves decorate the sky painting it a beautiful Inferno. I've lived here my whole life, with the same school, same faces and same routine for years. But now i stray from that horrible, mind-numbing, repetitive Ilfestyle, I pass the coffee shop that I used to do most my homework in, it reminds me of an English assignment that's due tomorrow. It's a shame I won't be there to hand it in, I worked hard on it. I keep walking through the bustling town streets, people walking lazily down the road, it's a calm atmosphere. I can hear a street performer in the distance, they're playing that one song i hear all the time on the radio, the strumming of the guitar falling in perfect sync with my footsteps. I haven't felt this stable in years.

I walk for hours, looking at the places i grew up in. I visited the old overgrown park by the bus stop, stopped outside a house of a friend I no longer speak to, went to my favourite book shop for the final time, and visited that new ice cream parlour that my friend kept insisting go to it's a shame that I'll never get to taste the chunky chocolate brownie flavour that they raved over. The place makes me think of all the memories we could have hart thare All the memories they'll have without me. I can almost picture them there, laughing and messing around together, all tucking in to their respective flavour, arguing over which one is best. It almost makes me cry, but I don't.

My final stop takes me to the church, the tall, impressive building, right on the edge of town. The doors are closed and the lights off, I'm assuming the door would be locked to, if I tried it. But I'm not here to pray. I was never a believer in that sort of thing, as much as it meant to mum. Sometimes I think she resented me for it. I make my way to the garden, it's filled with evergreen trees and cold decaying graves. They are lined up in rows, all in some state of decomposition. All except one. It's an unremarkable thing a simple concrete headstone and small text tucked away in the corner with freshly dug soil laid in front of it like a duvet. I read over the name, like I've done many times before

Chase Thursall

I smile and sit next to it. The sound of a car pulling up and parking in the car park can be heard and watch as my mother steps out, holding flowers, a sad look on her face. I've only been dead a week, but in all my years of life I never stopped to think about who would care if I chose to go

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I am so madly in love rn it's not even funny