She couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of the moment ; the black, strong coffee, now cold , left bare in her hands. Just like her soul. She had been left many times and she has grown used to it. But the emptiness never quite felt the same. It was as if her cracked, misunderstood heart built a place for every glance, every tenderness. Oh, she was furious. She wanted to belong to herself once again, undoubtedly, entirely, without having to lose pieces of who she was.
This time, it was him who broke her, his endless absence, his refusal. I shouldn’t have told him this much. I should’ve lied. Now that he knows , it will be easy for him to shatter me. I’m nothing again. If I was smart enough, I would’ve seen this coming.
She wrote the sadness away, shutting off the world, but in the end it was him who arose from the words, whole pages impregnated with his memory.
He watched the cigarettes falling one by one, entire bodies wasted on a girl, now weakly flickering on the cold concrete. She made him smoke quite oftenly, and without knowing it, she kept ruining him from the inside out. Him unraveling her, layer by layer, hurt ; not seeing her hurt even more. He couldn’t stand to see her spiraling into self destruction, towards a reckless runaway, and know that all this started with him. So he chose to save at least what was left of her, at his own expense.
She will fade away, he thought. I will too, from her memory. We will be better off as strangers.
With the promise in his mind, he abandoned the street, leaving behind a trail of bright red, dying lights.
That night, neither one was able to sleep, still thinking about the other. But, as it is said, 4 AM is the time of melancholia and lost love.