She lay limp in the centre of her bed. A dark, heavy inkblot on a white fluffy cloud. She was so focused on her breathing – slow, steady, deep, her whole body rising and falling in rhythmic fluidness like the slow dance of a carrousel horse. She could not prevent the tears; this much she knew. But focusing on her breathing, the expansion and contraction of her full chest, the specks of dust dancing around each other, oblivious to her devastation, focusing on anything but the silent disintegration of her heart usually prolonged them.

Her arms flung up carelessly beside her head, knees together, bent, tucked up to one side. She allowed her head to flop to the right as she eyed the candle burning before her. It begun to blur. She knew what was coming. How many times had she been here before? Four? Five? Of course she would get over it. The positive about having your heart broken many times before is the confidence in knowing that someone will come along again eventually to sticky-tape it back together. Right?
She felt it as instantly as it appeared. The first tear. Round, full and beautiful. A crystal holding the secrets of her soul, containing the stories of her essence. She imagined it in its spherical perfection as it journeyed from her clear blue eye down her cheek, into the crevasse of her nose before escaping between her lips. Someone would tape it back together. Surely. She felt the last of her resistance leave her body with the last exhale; even her determination not to cry was keen to leave her, to break free from her. She clenched her eyes and took a deep breath, and waited for her imminent disintegration.

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