Hi Guys, so apparently I don't take notes in class anymore I just think up the worse possible DL senarios. Try to make myself cry, pretend I'm emotional over Paradise Lost, tortured English major so moved by Milton.
I'm cruel to my fictional DL, they either OD on the fluff or are knee deep in angst. Here is waist deep in sad sad angst. enjoy

A/N: Short, un-beta'd so mistakes are all mine. I'm new at this and still learning, so thanks for taking the time to read.

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She never thought this could happen so soon. Moving her belongings out of their apartment, moving out of the life they had created. She was waiting for Flack to bring the car around. She was so grateful he was there to help her, knowing how difficult this must be for him too. She felt suffocated by the boxes of mementos. She tried not looking at it. She didn’t want to open the satin bound book, didn’t want to thumb through the pages of glossy photos. The sounds of laughter that stabbed her with hurt as they resonated in her mind, but she was here now alone, moving her things out.

She was unsure of her next move. Suddenly enraged she flung the album across the room. The disturbed dust floated and swirled in the afternoon light. The two weeks of dust clouded around her, enveloping as she sat on the worn hardwood floor. She felt so small, so alone. She knew that everyone was behind her, willing to help her, everyone except the one person she needed the most. Two weeks. Two weeks away from this place and she still felt no better. She looked over to the hall table to the place that used to hold a glass vase; she had destroyed that as well in a fit of rage. It felt good to break things in the first moment, but instantly the emptiness and heartbreak would overwhelm her. How many times had she come home to see that vase filled with flowers that he surprised her with, mostly daisies to remind her of the first flower. Never would she see those flowers in that vase, in their home. She was caught between two conflicting emotions, the overwhelming feeling to flee, to get away from this place, away from the memories which plagued her and left a sharp ache on her heart. These thoughts would give way to the feelings that she never wanted to leave but rather live here in a strange monument to what they had. Like an exhibition in a museum, just like Miss Havisham, leave everything exactly as it was before it all ended.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the soft knocking and sympathetic faces of Stella and Flack. His blue eyes scanning the disturbance and the glossy photos littering the floor.

“His parents will come get his stuff,” quietly adding “anything you don’t want to keep.”

She looked away in vain, trying to hide her tears. Tears she no longer could control. Flack softly walked over to the album while Stella enveloped her in comforting arms.

That awful phone call. The disbelief in the morgue. Running out of the cemetery only to return later that afternoon to cry by herself over a fresh mound of dirt. Two weeks on Stella’s couch, falling asleep wishing she could wake up from this nightmare. Wake up next to him that morning and beg him to call in sick. Anything to have one more day together.