There were pieces of paper all over the floor. Torn fragments, all painful reminders and other stereotypical love-angst-love things.

But he couldn't help it, could he?

It felt like he was dying.

Then again, he thought bitterly, I've never died, so how would I know?

He cleanched his fists, trying to keep himself from getting to worked up over nothing. But to him, it wasn't nothing.

It was his entire world turning upside down without giving him any warning, and then expecting him to live with it.

Just 'take it like a man!'? 'Pull yourself together and get back on the horse!' without any time for mourning whatsoever?

Well, it still stung.

He rummaged through the papers - love letters, notes passed during class, doodles, bad poetry written in purple ink - his hands recklessly flipping over page after page. Searching.

Did I ever tell you how much I loved your horrid poetry?

The bedroom was a mess, but he couldn't care less at this point. Down on his hands and knees, he groped frantically for it, his chest heaving with broken sobs.

And isn't it funny, he thought despite himself, how the one's who don't believe in love always fall hardest?