Day 1

Her smile is illuminated by the faint light monitor, ignoring the moonshine outside her window. Her fingers are swift and unthinking as they fly over the keys, words crawling from her throat, suffering in silence, until they seep through her pores.

The night ends with the strike of midnight displayed on the clock on her wall, and an empty message she couldn't stop staring at. Her heart was swelling and bursting all on its own, over and over again, as her eyes traced the curves of those pixelated letters.

"I love you, goodnight."

He's holding her heart in his hands and it's beating, beating, beating.


Day 2

Worry is drawn in her passive brow, making its permanent etch upon her skin. Her phone stayed mute and his name didn't appear on her list, no matter how long she dwelt on it, coming back only to find disappointment.

The anxiety comes in many forms. Mostly for his well-being, but there is always a gnawing part of her that whispers that he simply forgot about her, that his love wanes as every day passes and the unfamiliarity of this flame, passionate and new, dwindles in the wake of a prettier storm.

It catches her off-guard, when he comes on. She leaps, both inside and out, the relief and sweltering happiness almost pathetic in their sudden appearance. She waits a while before she greets him, nice and short, always putting up some sort of front. He leaves her vulnerable and she is trying to catch some semblance of the coldness she once harnessed.

The conversation does not go as well as she hoped, even after all that waiting. He seemed distant, aloof with some ounce of caring, and when he leaves it is only with a warning, but not even goodbye. No shatteringly sweet I love you. There were so many things she wanted to say, to ask, to reassure, but he's gone. It's not enough.

She told him she missed him and even right after speaking to him before, she still does.

Her heart has a puncture in it now, but it's still little enough to ignore.


Day 3

She is outside now, trying to live. Trying, and succeeding slightly, but failing in the most part. Sometimes her mind wanders off and she could picture his grin in her mind, the crooked perfection of it, the tinge of depth in his voice and the unfathomable darkness of his eyes. But no amount of picturing him can make him materialize before her, long enough to wrap her arms around him and kiss him with the lightness of what should have been a beautiful day.

She feels like crap.

Sometimes he might as well be dead.

That is, until she feels a vibration in her pocket and the glow from her phone screen lights up her entire world. For that instant, at least.

A beam threatens to erupt on her lips and she contents herself with a few seconds to savor the message before hastily forming a reply.

The little cut on her heart is sewing itself up, hoping to heal before it's opened again.


Day 4

Happiness seems measured these days, in carefully calculated twenty-four hours. Sometimes he stays long enough to buy her a few more minutes, but with every day that proves his distance she seems to fall harder and harder each time.

His memory stains every long song that permeates her ears, all that anyone's ever written, each line of rueful lyric applicable to their strands of a relationship. Other men only make her rearrange their features in her head to resemble his face, and even seeing the color of the shirt he was wearing when she last saw him only serves as a reminder to her.

Sometimes she wants him so much it drives her insane.

The instability of this, she knows, would only destroy her someday, but she can't bring herself to let go. He personified love when he loved her, but when he shows less of it each and every day she can't help but crumble. She believes him and she does not. She doesn't really understand love, which tells her this really is it. She wouldn't be surprised if it ends faster than she bargained for, but the regret lies in how long and how much she already loved him, and she can't imagine ever stopping.

The clock doesn't stop ticking, and he doesn't show. The wound slowly tears itself a bit more than before, the stitching coming loose.


Day 5

Her tears, trapped in her eyes, are illuminated by the faint light monitor, paled by the moonshine outside her window. Her fingers are swift as they fly over the keys, but they quickly erase, contemplating maybe a bit too much. The words are crawling from her throat, suffering in silence, until they seep through her pores. A confession not even a week in the making.

There is an unsent paragraph on the screen and she hits delete before she could even consider showing him. She chokes on a sob, a missed note in the(ier) song playing on her speakers, but she does not falter and writes something that makes it seem like he made her laugh.

She loves him and she wants this to last, in all its cliche, murdering, fucked up glory. She is in love with the boy who can't seem to make up his mind if he really loves her or not, and she wants him to stay long enough to make it a reality. It's a fantasy on the verge of coming true, but she's still not sure if she'll just wake up in the farthest end of it.

The night ends with the strike of midnight displayed on the clock on her wall, and an empty message she couldn't stop staring at. She never told him, by the way, stunned by the sincerity of his parting words. Just when she's about to give up he does something that makes her crash against him, holding on tighter, uncertain of which of them would drift away first.

"I love you, so much, baby."

You could kill a soul with those words, glowing like fireflies, like torches, like lethal explosions, on the screen.

No gun, no bullets. Just words and a boy.

He kills her well, and she pretends it's all right.

He's holding her heart in his hands and it's bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.


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