Frangible


bambi, bright, and light image

Frangible

an unimportant, absentmindedly made, word vomit.

“It’s not working.” She whines, trying her best not to let the water in her eyes that prickling every so often falls. “I’m not working.”

There’s a brief pause before his voice comes back, filling the silence that silently suffocates her. “What is it that makes you not working?” he asks, carefully picking his words before saying it out loud.

Her attempt on holding her whimper fails miserably. She doesn’t know how to function normally again, she doesn’t know how to speak again, she doesn’t know how, and she has no idea why. Her brain is filled with sadness and exasperation as she falls deeper onto the darkness where she’s left alone, without him.

Stuttering, she finally manages to answer, “You. It’s you that’s making me not working.”

Her answer is enough to shut him up. He stops his steps, looking up at the black, dark skies nonchalantly. He can’t understand that.

“Why?” he whispered again after overcoming his dismay. “We weren’t working, and it was you who told me to stop it.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she feels her cheeks heating up at the thought of them breaking up because of her. She’s so ashamed of her old self she can’t bring herself to remember them furthermore. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no use,” he says in final tone. “You wanted me to let you go, and I did. Now, this time, I want you to let me go, and I hope you’ll do the same as what I did back then.”

She has screwed things up, she knows it. And she realises it’s so silly of her to think—to hope—that they still have a chance. It’s stupid, and as she feels her cheeks reddened, she hung up on him.

It’s not his concern anymore whether she’s happy or not, whether she’s untroubled or not. And she knows she need to start doing the same.

finished: 22:41 | December 22, 2015.

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