Her words were thrown in the air.

I stood there.

I walked home.

I unlocked the door.

I stripped off my damp coat, unstrung my scarf.

I collapse and sit on the cold, cold wood floors.

As I do so, that’s when my metaphorical heart splinters into the tiniest of pieces.

Anatomically real hearts don’t break, they cannot realistically do so.

Which is precisely why this is so god-**** hard for it to heal back.

As you are fighting against a beautifully lucid and meticulously choreographed illusion.