"We all hide behind our wit," she said.

(She had wanted to be Jane Austen, but wound up being Sylvia Plath instead.)

She would never again trust another word. For who would trust a word? More so, a word without action to make sincere its cry? A fool; and she was not a fool.

Her rib-cage, cynical, read: "Love is no longer in vogue, better left to the history books and the firing squads." It wrapped its way around her lungs, a permanent reminder never to hold her breath for anyone. Suffocation was inevitable in this day and age.

Never let down your guard. Never let down your guard.

Steady. Repetition. Her anthem.

...

She found his existence maddening. He made her skin crawl. Made her blood rush. He made her a fool. He had taught her that falling in love and falling were more alike than different. He had shown her that broken hearts were far more painful than broken bones.

She was a pond, and he was a willow. He would create ripples...
She would make waves.

Drowning was more of a promise than a potential. Not a matter of if, but of when.

...

These days, she drowned in seas of laughter.

Wit had become her constant companion. A guide to survival. She had survived him. Had surpassed him, even.

Two steps ahead- always looking back.

She would be the court jester; he, merely, the material for the next good joke.