She sat on the stairs, looked at the view from the nth floor.
Dark sky, green grasses, tall buildings.
All of them meaningless in her undeniable pain.
Another day, she would've been in awe of the natural beauty.
But today is not one of those days.
She kept saying to herself:

I am okay, as long as I don't see his face.
I am okay, as long as I don't hear his voice.
I am okay, as long as I don't smell the scent of his clothes.
I am okay. He doesn't matter to me. Not anymore.
He doesn't ripple.

But he does. He still does.
Why else can't she bear to hear his voice?
Why else would her stomach turn when she smells the familiar scent of him?
Why didn't she guard her heart, for heaven's sake?