Tom walked to the door slowly, his heart heavy and his mind hesitant. He knew who would be there, and he knew why. For fifteen years she had been stopping by his apartment, and every time the enjoyed their evening together. Today, though, was different. Today, he would go back to the part of his mind where she would only exist as a happy memory. Tom was acting. He would move on. He would let go.
     Tom approached the door. He heard the familiar knocking. The knocking that no one could hear but him. At the same time, another knocking that no one could hear was getting louder in Tom's ears. The knocking of Tom's  broken heart, echoing the knocking on the door, the door Tom stood before now. He grasped the ****. The doorknob was oddly cold to Tom's hand; ordinarily Tom would explain to anyone listening that the doorknob was exactly the same as always, and that it only felt cold because Tom's hands were hot and sweaty, but now Tom only stared out the doorknob and took a deep breath.