As she drove away, a single tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped at it angrily, mad at herself for giving into her sadness. "He wouldn't want this," she thinks bitterly.
It hadn't taken them long to fall in love⦠only a matter of days. The more they saw of each other, the more they couldn't stand being without each other.
He was so happy, so carefree. He was spontaneous and full of life. He was everything she wanted to be.
But most importantly, he made her feel loved, a feeling she had never experienced with an abusive father and a dead mother.
And she was everything he needed: a constant in his life, a weight to pull him back down to earth. Her smile lit up his day, and he almost changed for her.
But drugs are a serious thing, so easy to start but so hard to stop. No matter how many times her friends told her, their eyes filled with pity, that he had a problem, she denied it profusely. "He's fine," she argued. "He can handle himself."
Yet here she was driving away. Away from the best thing that had ever happened to her. Away from the only love she had ever received. Because her friends were right, he had a problem, and she was wrong, he couldn't handle himself.
The trees planted alongside the road were flowering, their white blossoms the only thing for miles that shows some sign of vitality. Because this was a place of loneliness and misery, of sorrow and regret, of tears and heartache.
This was a place she couldn't be with him.
Because she was alive.
And he was dead.
