You never notice, but every time she tries to talk to you, she forgets to breathe, leaving her choking in silence.
She knows what you think of her. You told her once.
The boy who learned coldness from his father, turning her state of devastation into a hopeless lifestyle. You paint her like a child, never failing to make her feel unintelligent.
Hearing your name fills her stomach with nausea, not out of disgust but out of an overwhelming nervousness that you will come around again and make her feel as unwanted as possible.
You do that from time to time.
You come back into her life and talk to her in a much gentler tone, making her believe that she actually means something to you, but you ignore her the next day just to listen to the sound of her heart breaking,
and it tortures her, but she feels no anger,
because despite how many times you’ve lead her on, what has hurt her the most were the things you said to her last June, and she’s tried so hard to erase that part from her memory, but the truth is neither of you will ever look at each other the same.
Now she wastes her thoughts searching for a way to forget about you, but there’s a gun, made from your words, pointed at the side of her head,
and she’s just waiting for you to pull the trigger.