I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together and tell myself that the mended whole was good as new.
They were gone: everyone. The very thought of how it all came crashing down made her head spin.
At one point in time she thought (naively) that nothing could stop them; they were untouchable, the perfect team. She had never been so wrong in her life.
She packed the last of her belongings into her small suitcase and closed it, locking the clips into place. She turned to leave the room when a small square object tagged to the wall adjacent to her grabbed her attention.
The object in question wasn't much to look at, in fact the woman had looked at the object many times before dismissing it in the next second. Its wrinkled appearance and creased edges with the large, crude tear in the lower right corner was off-putting but the image displayed on the object never failed to put a smile on her face. This time was no exception.
She set her suitcase down at her feet and pointed her right index finger at the picture, her right thumb pointed upwards so her hand formed a makeshift gun. "Bang," she whispered softly. Putting the index finger to her lips, she softly blew on its tip before allowing her hand to drop to her side once more.
The woman picked up her small suitcase and made her way out of the room without so much as a backwards glance.
See you in space Cowboy.
What is broken is broken – and I'd rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived.