Their sea foam apartment has soaked up the ashes that have hit their bedroom carpet, as well as the remnants of silent conversations passed between quiet lips. She found him in his Victorian chair that he had acquired from last year's flea market.

But staring. As if he wanted to mold into the inanimate walls, so that glares became passing glances, thoughts and feelings would strip into the air. The very fabrics of his mind would form to nothing - nothing significant. He mumbled heavy words towards the window, his view of family distorted under his parent's clumsy hands. She knew his hatred pulsed behind every memory of "family".

She thought, "but they grew older and so did we".

His eyes had never looked so dull. The reluctance in his face reminded her that she was tired. Not tired of her bed. But of this- blanket of clouded emotions. She herself collapsed next to him, freeing her dismantled wonders and collected pool of what used to be.

In a circle-the-drain sort of way, he said that it's killing him.

Killing you? I think killing both of us.
Hesitating, her voice broke the silence.

"Maybe that's our tragic flaw; we think too alike. If you're tired my love, then I feel the same."