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4. The Girl Who Wanted Nothing More Than To Be There For You,

The house seems bigger, each speck of dust a realm to explore, and she explored them.

Living on the idea that if you leave the house you will see him, she has spent the last two days seeming to stare at the ceiling, eat, use the bathroom, and go back to her spot to stare at the ceiling again.

Her heart is numb, her eyes are sore, and her brain is replaying every memory she had with him.

The late night conversations, the runs in the park, the days where he was sick in bed, and the days when he would come home from a party filled with lust for her; each one would play out like a third-person movie, and each time she would get angry with herself.

Angry she didn't see the signs in the last couple of days. The distant looks, the inability to kiss her, and most of all, the slight tinge of pink on his lips when he came home from a late night at work.

Suddenly she wasn't numb anymore, she was mad. Mad at herself for being so dumb, so naive, so hopelessly in love with him that he could lead her to a cage full of hungry tigers if it meant he was there too.

And suddenly the grey world turned red.

She needed to vent, to release the pent-up frustrations she felt with herself. So she punched the wall as hard as she could, right above the picture of the two of them at Venice Beach.

The wall shattered around her fist, causing her to scream out in pain and rage. Then she kicked the wall, her torn fist at her side. This caused the photo to fall from the wall and shatter at her feet.

Then the grey seemed welcoming to her as she fell to her knees and cried into her bloodied hand. The broken wall and the smashed glass victims of her wild emotions.

When she put herself together, or as much as she could, she knew she needed to clean her hand up before infection took over her pitiful excuse of a body.

So she took herself to the bathroom and, not being able to avoid the mirror, saw her reflection for the first time since they broke up.

The bags under her eyes were red from continuous crying and seemed to stretch all the way to her nose. Her skin was a ghostly white, as pale as the porcelain sink below her. Her hair was slick from not being washed and a rats nest that overtook her head stuck up from the back.

She scoffed at her reflection and stared at the sink that was turning red from her hand. She just stared at it for a second, the pain no longer a factor, as she stared at the beauty that was her own blood. It created a swirl pattern on the clear structure; a picture that ought to be in a fancy museum, not a broken-hearted girl's bathroom.

Slowly she fixed her hand, her heart numb and not able to comprehend the pain that was supposed to be there.

And when she looked back in the mirror, she recognized her old self.

The one that would make silly faces as she stared at her reflection and then laugh afterwards. The one that would dance in the mirror to old songs from long ago. The one that drew in the mist from her hot showers, random objects and her name.

And soon a hint of a smile appeared on her lips as she remembered those days. The days where she was completely herself, not caring about anyone else.

But then her memories started showing her tracing his name in the fog. Her name with his last name.

And then the smile was gone.