Fingers cold, chest hollow.

Words that have repeated in my head remain uncomprehending. My eyes flutter to my reflection, searching and finding too many imperfections. Dead eyes stare back from where they lay sunken in a pale face. Tears threaten at the corners, clinging to dark lashes, defiant.

A smirk tugs at the corners of cracked lips.

Even my tears fought.

I’d been sitting numb for a time, searching the poor mirror for answers. Her warm breath ghosted across my nape, the memory enough for the tears to surrender and fall over harsh cheekbones. Her warm fingertips, molten in comparison to what mine now were, had caressed my skin carelessly, a pleasant habit. My chest ached, and my heart beat methodically, the muscle a cruel reminder that I hadn’t, in fact, died.

Time had stopped and the world had ended.

Outside, the tweeting birds flew, occasionally stopping to peck at nothing, oblivious to the cracking walls and shaking ground. Frowning, I focused closer to the world beyond my window. Everything else seemed normal.

Perhaps it was only me.

My phone sat unmoving beside the desk, the ritualistic need to check for a message nagging at the back of my mind. With a great sigh, I contemplated the words again. Repetition might have helped understand.

“I don’t love you like I did. I am not good for you. It’s over.”

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