She sits, thinking. Typing, writing, hoping, but the words are broken. She can feel the disaster pounding in her chest. She hears her heartbeat reverberating off the walls, wondering how anyone could sleep through the sound. Her image shatters and reforms cracked and flawed but somehow better than before.
She thinks of him and suddenly the sunflowers that grew from her mouth wilt and die, their petals curling in to hide. They scream in agony, for the loss of their beauty. That's the point she can't see. Beauty dies.
The sky screams at her, as her eyes dance over paper. None of this means anything. All she feels is cold. Cold. Cold, cold, cold, and loneliness. They don't know. They'll never know. As she leaves the bathroom she presses a finger to her lips, signaling her reflection to never say a word.
And as she chokes on glass fragments from the falling of the sky, she mutters out a copper-scented overdue….