She said she was over that. But I knew  she remembered every single detail, everything just the way it was. The smell of coffee in the room, the colour of his skin, just greying and almost withering away, and the pattern of the curtain that hid the world from his dying breath. She said she was over that, but at night she breaks down and weeps and all the strings inside of her break down and I can feel her crying even though she thinks I'm asleep, and her tears burn her skin and she whispers his name in an earnest effort to bring him back from the embrace of death but she knows he can't find his way back and her eyes cannot hold any more sadness than it already does. She says she's over that. But I know better.