The encroaching dependence upon the repetition of words to keep from breaking down in tears was a thought that she pushed down by that very practice. She sat in a living room of pale yellow with the windows open, peering out intently into nothing.
July. Sunny. Afternoon. Mid-80's maybe, from what she could tell. Making further notice of the living room. They didn't have a TV, figuring there wasn't much use in getting one if they weren't using it. The couch was used, blue clothed and ripped, something that they found from looking here and there, off and online. The whole living room was a mashup up various pieces of furniture that all blended together because of the equal commonality that they all shared, namely that they didn't share anything.
She thought that it was kind of like them, kind of like everyone. There was always the aching feeling that they never looked like they matched. It wasn't that she saw herself as unattractive, as less than the one she loved, but rather she just didn't feel that they matched.
It was those words that she regretted the most. Almost innocent, not intending them to hurt or sting. Stop. The tears began. She went back into nothing, sitting there waiting for the nothing. That is not say, "nothing in particular," but rather the further perpetuation of the void she had created around her.
Life goes on. New people come. As far she knew, no one was special in particular. Maybe it was just some internal animalistic force compelling her to want love, to want to love one person in particular. These were the thoughts she was trying to avoid. The strain of withholding so much is damaging in ways unseen. So she let go. She dropped the letter that was gripped in her hand. She knew that another one wouldn't come.
