liean
06-04-2009, 12:00 PM
She lies in her bed and stares at the blur vision of the ceiling. A tear streamed down her cheeks and dampens her pillows. No one knew how she felt or what she thought. She turned to her sides and picked up her phone. The feeling, tortures with familiarity to her. Pain surged through her body and her lungs clogged up with sobs. The screen showed no sign of any missed calls or any messages left to be read. There was no concern whatsoever from anyone.
She felt empty, and hollow. Her eyes were lifeless. The sparkle that was once there, was nowhere to be seen. Her skin was pale, and damp, from all the crying. Her hands shook with every move made. There’s no urgency. It was all a routine, that she practiced every night. It went on for hours and these hours, was never once enough to overcome the pain. The ache. It was all she needed. Every day, was another new play. She pretended to be normal. She smiled, she joked, she laughed. But the pain was never forgotten. Always there. The cut, the wound, in her heart would never heal.
All that was left, are memories. He never spoke to her again. No more midnight calls. No more sweet talks. She never found notes in her locker again. No more gifts on ordinary days. And no beautifully sentenced messages, to melt her heart. He was no longer there.
She reached under her bed. Her fingertips, felt for something rough, old. Something… worn-out. She searched, for the box. She knew perfectly well that it’s in there. She knew, every little thing that would remind her of his presence, is stored carefully, safely, in that box. Every card, every gift, every single word, every touch, and every single feeling, was hidden in that tiny little box. Once, an empty, useless, box, could now contain her world, her life, her happiness, and everything, and everything that could mean anything to her.
She did this without looking. It was familiar to her. It was…a chore, a habit, a practice, a tradition. Whatever you would call an activity, which was so often, so frequently, repeated. Once again, she pulled at the edges of the lid of the box. She opened it. Slowly…
She felt empty, and hollow. Her eyes were lifeless. The sparkle that was once there, was nowhere to be seen. Her skin was pale, and damp, from all the crying. Her hands shook with every move made. There’s no urgency. It was all a routine, that she practiced every night. It went on for hours and these hours, was never once enough to overcome the pain. The ache. It was all she needed. Every day, was another new play. She pretended to be normal. She smiled, she joked, she laughed. But the pain was never forgotten. Always there. The cut, the wound, in her heart would never heal.
All that was left, are memories. He never spoke to her again. No more midnight calls. No more sweet talks. She never found notes in her locker again. No more gifts on ordinary days. And no beautifully sentenced messages, to melt her heart. He was no longer there.
She reached under her bed. Her fingertips, felt for something rough, old. Something… worn-out. She searched, for the box. She knew perfectly well that it’s in there. She knew, every little thing that would remind her of his presence, is stored carefully, safely, in that box. Every card, every gift, every single word, every touch, and every single feeling, was hidden in that tiny little box. Once, an empty, useless, box, could now contain her world, her life, her happiness, and everything, and everything that could mean anything to her.
She did this without looking. It was familiar to her. It was…a chore, a habit, a practice, a tradition. Whatever you would call an activity, which was so often, so frequently, repeated. Once again, she pulled at the edges of the lid of the box. She opened it. Slowly…