Okay

It's time for her to say goodbye. She doesn't want to leave, oh no. But there's nothing left for her here. He's moved on, and no one is sympathetic to her plight. She can't stand the nightmares she has every time she closes her eyes. She wakes up in the middle of the night – screaming, mind you – and she has to stand and walk around for at least an hour before she can fall back asleep. She sweats and shakes, the terror engulfing her until she has to gasp greedily for breath.

If he hadn't left her – hadn't been selfish, been st-up-id – then she wouldn't sob herself to sleep. She'd be attending meals with her family every Sunday, just like she used to. She'd be happy, healthy, loved. But she's not.

She's unhappy, unhealthy, unloved. She's lost thirty pounds – thirty pounds that she didn't need to lose – in three months. She doesn't eat; she just sits around her house, staring into the blackness, waiting for the misery – the pain, the despair, the depression – to consume her.

Tears in her eyes are all she knows anymore. Ever since he…she can't say it! She hasn't been able to say it since it happened. But she needs to admit it to herself. If only to keep her sanity, she needs to acknowledge the truth.

She hasn't cracked a smile since…since…since he killed himself. Since that fateful day three months ago, when her world fell apart and she embraced the darkness. Since all of her happiness drained away and she could only grimacegrimacegrimace. Since his parents had forbid him from seeing her, and he'd decided that he'd rather die than live without her (incorrect logic brought ruin, did you know?).

So now she doesn't want to live without him, and she's going to take her own life. She doesn't want to answer anymore areyouokay?s with whatdoyouthink?s. The people around her are invasive, and she just wants to mourn in privacy. But she realizes that it'd be better to be with him in the afterlife than without him in life.


Another family member knocks on the door. Knocks and knocks and knocks. Finally opens it, just a crack, whispers areyouokay? but never hears a whatdoyouthink?. Because she's finally passed, and everyone knows that an empty room – an empty body and blood in the middle of the floor – can't answer questions.