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It’s not just some sad story, you know? We could’ve made it about healing. About light. But what happened… broke something deep. And now, it lives like a scar in my mind. She took love like it was hers to eat. Stayed hidden, like she didn’t want to be seen. She never left. Not really. My heart? Just a machine now. It keeps pumping blood into places it’s not needed. You try to rub the pain off your skin, but all it does is open it up again. What happened was too loud, too real. So I shut my eyes. And now I can’t open them without seeing it.
Point your broken heart at me and let’s see where it takes us. Let’s find out what part of you still works. Take me to the edge of something real, and tell me— what scares you more: drowning in it, or what gets stuck to you after? If you had to walk away— just leave, in the cold, not knowing if you’d ever come back as the same person— would you still go? I want to get inside your head. I want to see what you’re hiding when you smile. Not to fix you—just to understand if you’re really as breakable as you pretend to be. Are you soft like a kid who still believes someone will save them? Or are you cold and wired shut, like glass about to crack? Either way, I’ll be there when it happens. Even if you shatter. Even if I’m the one that does it.
You came back. Again. Same way as always. Same knock. Same timing. Every few weeks you show up like clockwork, like it’s a routine. And still, it makes me feel something. I wish it didn’t. But then you leave. Every time. And it always feels the same— like something warm getting ripped off of me slowly, but with purpose. You make it look easy. And if not love then what is this? And if it wasn’t real, why does it still burn like this? I tried to think my way out. Tried to reason with it. Tried to tell myself it’s all in my head. That no one needs love that hurts this bad. But what if they do? What if I do? What if you do? I don’t even know what’s real anymore. Patience? Loyalty? What’s the point if it just rots inside you? They say there’s honour in staying. That if you love someone, really love them, you’d bleed for them and still say thank you. Maybe that’s true. Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing all this time. Because now it’s me. I’m the one knocking. Again. Even when I swore I wouldn’t. And maybe I hate it sometimes. But I’m still here. I always will be because you—you’d do the same.
Shoshanna’s breathing was heavy. The sky was still black but her eyes hurt less. She stopped the horse and pushed Daniel off. His legs buckled as he hit the ground. ‘What are you doing?’ Daniel asked, pushing himself up. ‘I’m done.’ ‘But you’re so close.’ ‘You saw it all. They’ll listen to you.’ ‘We could bury him right now. We could fix it. We could make it right.’ ‘I’m not going back.’ ‘So you’re just going to run away?’ There is nowhere to run to. There is rot in the ground. I had nothing. I had nothing and I still somehow lost it all. I barely made it through—bloodied and bruised—and now I have to fix it? I can’t help anybody now, and I wouldn’t even know where to start. I shouldn’t even have to. I didn’t even do anything. This all started because of him. And now I’ll have to carry a gun on my back wherever I go. She turned, looked at him one last time. “I’m tired, Daniel. But maybe one day… when the ground stops bleeding and we stop running, you’ll find me again. And maybe then I won’t turn away.” Then she walked. Into the dark, but not completely gone.