"Do you love me?"

4 words. 4 simple words that only require a single word for an answer. Yes or no, but here I was, staring at her like she had asked me how many stars were in the sky.

She asked again.

Did I love her? I loved our conversations. I loved her lips. I loved the way her hair would cling around her face as she swam to me. I loved to share my bed with her… but did I love her? Just her; if all the quirks and smiles and open legs were gone and it was just her- with no incentives to say it in her ear- or no one saying it first- would I still say it?

I faltered- she saw.

"Fuck you then," she growled through her tears that I failed to see coming. She pulled the necklace away from her body, breaking the clasp and threw it at me- it bounced of my chest and landed on the table between us. I looked down at the gold chain connected to a small key that I had teased saying it was the key to my heart, when I first put it around her small neck.

I heard her walking away but couldn't look up to watch. It always hurt just a bit too much then I'd care to admit. I leaned against the chair and rubbed the back of my neck looking towards the door hoping to see her walk back in and say it was okay if I didn't love her… but I knew she wouldn't. She was too stubborn for that. To stubborn to say after almost a year of climbing into my bed no soft 'I love you's' were okay.

The waiter brought our food; he paused a bit seeing the empty chair in front of me. I hardly glanced up as he stood there dumbly waiting for my move. I stood up and set some money down as I walked towards the door- not looking back at the wasted food or the dumbly frozen waiter or the broken heart we had left at the table.

But did I love her?

That question burned a whole in my thoughts as I trudged through the snow towards home. I could name off every single thing I loved about her as I kicked at the fluff at my feet… but there was one thing standing in my way. Words always got in my way. The world always got in my way… her love always got in my way.

A week later they found her on the bathroom floor, the men's shaving razor still in her grasp. She used mine- or course she did. She used it as punishment- as a reminder… as irony. I guess I'll never really know. I didn't see her until they had her cleaned up and she was lying peacefully under a white sheet. But I saw her blood. The smell of it made me cringe. I threw up, twice. I tried to clean up her mess but I couldn't. It hurt a little too more then I'd care to admit.

That's really where my story begins- my story of heartache and the journey to forget. I could tell you about the way I cried secretly every night for months for the loss of the girl I thought I might love… but I'd rather not show you the broken side just yet. No my tears will not run through the pages of this story, but my anger will.

I left Brooklyn one year ago…