This jolting quiver in the shins, this demand for the sense of balance to come back in the mind, this lack of grip in the fingers (the pen has escaped by hand five times already as I write this)—an unstable condition. It's rare, yes. Especially, for one like me. But not at all unfamiliar

I've been here before. Déjà vu. I've been in this situation where I have to smile with great awareness just to convince everyone around me that I'm okay (because a little less effort will force the weight of sadness down the corners of my mouth); where my chest is so heavy I cannot breathe right without premeditatingly inhaling, thus forcing air into my lungs, exhaling, thus forcing air out; where I have to be reclused as much as possible lest tears suddenly fall in the middle of carefree conversations full of laughter and my friends ask me what's wrong. (And believe me, the last thing I want right now is to be reminded of the complications my mind cannot forget.)

So far, there hasn't been a single tear. Thank, Heavens. I've gotten better at holding them back, I guess—since the last time he won at his loss, and dragged me into considering the possibility that I've been correct all along: what causes this? maybe he is not worth suffering for—as she.