She was heartbroken.

You could tell by the mess of knots and oil that her hair had become, twisted up in a messy top bun.
The way she had always loved doing her hair when she took on another crazy project, whether it was melting crayons or adopting a highway or designing her new dream room.

You could tell by the cold Spaghetti-Os and rainbow goldfish that sat patiently outside her locked door on a pink-and-blue-i'm-concerned-for-you tray.
The foods she had introduced her to, the foods they had fallen in love with together, the foods they would leave in each other's lockers with notes that said,

“
Hey. Just wanted to say I love you..

?

-Your secret admirer

”


Of course, to them it wasn't a secret. But it had to be kept secret from Everyone Else, because Everyone Else wouldn't understand. Everyone Else would judge them. Everyone Else would turn against them. Everyone Else would turn them against each other.


She was in love.

You could tell by the way the pictures were strewn carelessly about her desk, fingerprints smudging the polaroid borders. Pictures of her, pictures of them,
pictures of chocolate-noses-blue-tongues-matching-bracelets-funny-faces,
Memories.
Memories of the good days.
The happy days.
The not-a-cloud-in-the-flawless-blue-sky days.
The i'll-share-my-umbrella-everything-will-be-okay days.
The hold-my-hand-i'll-never-let-go days.

Everyone has those days. No one ever expects it when the
oops-this-umbrella-is-too-small days
come, or
the it's-not-you-it's-me days
or the
curl-up-in-a-ball-and-cry days, the
scissors-poised-forget-those-days days.

Everyone knows those days will come, so why is everyone so surprised when they do?
Everyone knows that it will all end eventually, so why does it still hurt so much?
Do we need the pain? Do we use the pain as ‘proof' to say “Come back! I still love you!”
But do we really still love them, after all they've done? Do we really believe that they won't do it again? Or is it just that sick craving for attention, that longing to be part of something, even if that something isn't pure? Do we really still love them, or do we just love the social position that they gave us?


She did still love her.

You could tell by the scissors that lay buried in those memories.
There they were, the unforgiving metal jaws that weren't quite ready to give her up yet.
Those cruel blades who only operate as a team; surely they knew how useless she felt without her.

Their relationship didn't gain her any social status. Their love was sacred to only them, untainted by the prejudice of their peers. Her life was fine before she came along, but somehow it couldn't be after she left.


She was distraught.

You could tell by the unruly nest of blankets and sheets that made up her bed, tissues lining the patches of naked mattress.
The sheets smelled like salt-and-lilac-and-sunshine on a lets-frolic-in-a-meadow-and-roll-down-a-hill day.
The sheets smelled like her, from all the days they had opened the curtains and just laid in bed, soaking up warmth from the sun, and love from each other.

You could tell by the way she paced around her room, glancing at the phone. With each distressed footstep came,

“

Should I?

No, I shouldn't.

But what if--

No. She won't.

”


The phone was a powder-pink-yellowing-vintage-rotary phone, the numbers 8, 5, 4, 7, and 9 almost completely worn off from calling her so often. A faded sharpie (8 8) 45 -4 79 was written on the receiver, not that she would ever forget the code to contact her, her one-and-only.

Often she would stop pacing and stare at the numbers or maybe even wrap her fingers around the familiar, slightly curved receiver, only to remind herself that she didn't care anymore, then go back to pacing.

A million thought ran through her head but they were all about her. The twinkle in her eye, the taste of her lips, her mix matched shoelaces... her. her. HER.
And then she had a scary thought.
It was a terrible thought.
An awful-frightening-hair-raising-utterly-absolutely-real thought.

It was her, with her crazy bun, and painted nails, but with new bracelets, and new flavors, new cameras, new memories, new inside jokes, new lockers to put new notes in, new cheeks to kiss and new places to go.
It was her, with her light-up-the-world-smile, but with a new girl to hold and squeeze, and write poems about, and do weird things with, and hide from the world with, and love and declare love for, and have you-jump-i-jump-days with and be... happy.

Happier?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
She didn't want to find out.

She was her one-and-only.
and she was her one-and-only.
She was the only one who knew her
inside-out
right-side-in
upside-down
forward
backward
and twice-around.
She was the one who completed her.
She was the one who filled the void.

She grabbed the powder-pink-yellowing-fading-sharpie telephone and shakily dialled the number of her one-and-only.

“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Oh... Hey.”

She sighs.
She sighs too.

“I just wanted to say I love you.”