Narrative

{here}

She clamored to remember that wretched feeling. That crumpled over, hands tight around her middle, crying in the fetal position on the bathroom tile feeling. But it wouldn't come back. Just a few days ago she could call upon it with nothing more than a forced recollection of the way his hands or his hair felt. Try as she might, not even the love poems he wrote her could make her heart feel like it was being violently ripped apart anymore. That pain was comfortable and familiar and she longed for it. Hurting that way meant she could still keep him a part of her life in a small, dysfunctional manner. But a new face kept forcing its way into her mind and the corners of her mouth would lift themselves up a little. Instead of a violent ripping in her chest, something more pleasant yet equally uncomfortable arouse. It was like a sparrow's wings flapping about and her fingers felt electric. That scared her enough to resolve to never think of him again. Happiness, however, is difficult to control sometimes.