Tracing the outline of his face from a photograph, she couldn't decide what she felt. Did his memories make her happy? Or sad? Did she hate him for leaving her like that, or did she hate herself for letting him leave?
She stared once again at that face, the one she'd seen every single day since the past thirty years of her life, and it scared her that she still had no idea what she felt for him. No freaking idea. None at all.
And we see people leave all the time. Some leave unwillingly, through illness or death; some leave because the burden gets too hard to bear. Some leave and take all joys with them, some because they've cried too long. It's hard to stop them, you know. Harder still when things keep mounting over time and the debt just gets more and more impossible to pay.
She still didn't know what she wanted. Did she want him back, or was he gone for good? Or maybe she was just wishing she could start all over again? Have a new beginning, make a different ending.


Whatever it was, I knew I didn't want to be there. No. I didn't wish to be on that chair holding that piece of paper. 
I wouldn't let that happen to myself.
Or maybe that is me?