she reads him like a book on his shelf.
he needs her because he's got no one else.

"i can't accept this," she says plainly.
but he expects her to take it anyway. to slowly open the tiny black box and, beneath layers of drunken nights and redundant fights see the silver bracelet.

"don't give me anything. ever again. ever"
still she doesn't give a hint to why. doesn't she know it's not about the gifts?

piles of papers and pens and photographs and pills have consumed him. he sits alone stringing words into jewelry.
for her.

"just take it." she never opens it.
she hugs him and he hugs back, but mutters how he can't believe he loves a girl who won't even--

he wanted her to see the silver heart,
beating just as fast as his. it was sculpted abstractly as not to overwhelm her,
but exist with enough love and presence to remind her that he still loves her and that--

doesn't he know she's gone? doesn't he know the box is empty? doesn't he know the room is empty? still, he thinks, doesn't she know it's not about the gifts?

she reads him like a book on his shelf.
he needs her because he's got no one else.