This is part of my "50 Lyrics" series. It also happens to be a continuation of sorts to chapter seven of "Dialog of 100 Words" (although you don't have to read either series to understand this story).

I must confess, that my loneliness is killing me now;
Don't you know I still believe, that you will be here.

Lisa Reisert doesn't cry for him that much anymore.

The first few months she was fine – a few scattered, lonely tears here and there late at night, but that was about it. He's busy doing…whatever he has to do, she would tell herself, and a man like him can take care of himself. He'll be back soon; just got to be patient. These things take time. After all, it took him eight weeks to get to her, and she wasn't even anything praiseworthy; just a simple manager with a simple life. Meticulous that he is, he's going to need plenty of time. She's OK, she misses him, but she's OK.

*~*~*

During the first year, she became a mess. Her eyes were always swollen and bloodshot. A grimace seemed to be permanently glued to her face when she wasn't people-pleasing. And even then, her smile wasn't what it used to be. Her hair was limp and dry, losing all vitality. And her skin – always a few shades too pale. She'd be crying every night, stuffing her head into her pillow; silencing the broken weeping of a devastated woman. She would stare off into space a lot, most likely in the direction of a door. Tears would often streak down her face quietly during those times. It even happened while she was working, although it was mostly during off-peak hours when her mind was allowed to wander. Her coworkers worry about her, asking if she was alright. She'd paste on her most sparkling smile and reply every time, "Yes, of course I'm fine," even as the tears would continue to fall without her knowing.

"But, you're crying," they would say in return.

She'd laugh, "Oh, I just blanked out, and my eyes got too dry."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Just peachy!"

*~*~*

Around the beginning of the second year, she was about fifteen pounds lighter. She controlled herself better at work. Her grimace turned into a soft frown, and her smile continued to drop in its luster. Her eyes were often glassy and unfocused; they were always puffy. She stopped staring at doors and opted to stare at the table when her attention isn't focused on some bitching client.

Her heart gave a hopeful jump every time she heard a door open and close, any door at all – from work, from a café, neighbor's door; whatever. She used to think she heard him come back, or that he was shuffling about the apartment. But, it was never him; no one was ever there. She still cried herself to sleep – sobs choking the life out of her until she would finally pass out. She continued to clutch to her pillow like a lifeline. It's the pillow he used to sleep on. Used to. When did he become a past tense?

*~*~*

Towards the end of the second year she got angry. It sure as hell felt less distressing than the despair she was in. He never said a word to her after he left. He never even left her any contact information. He told her he needed to do this thing; that he would be done in two shakes. He told her that he would be right back. He gave her one of his cocky smiles, thoroughly kissed her, and said, "I'll see you again really soon," then he was gone. Then he stayed gone. If he was dead, the decent thing to do was to have someone let her know about it. If he wasn't dead, he might as well be dead to her now. Yet still…she occasionally finds wetness over her cheeks and she finds herself straining her ears to hear him come home, even as she tells herself she no longer cares.

*~*~*

By the third year, she gave up on him. She stopped jumping every time a door opens and close. She stopped bothering to look up when it happens. She's not even angry anymore and she no longer frowned either. When she doesn't have to put on her Barbie-doll-smile for her work, she has a blank look on her face. She lost another five pounds by now. She doesn't cry for him that much anymore.

*~*~*

One night she found herself impassively watching the news on TV. She wasn't really paying attention; it was just something to do – a bit of sound to fill the otherwise empty apartment. Suddenly she heard a low keening wail. It was a sound akin to an injured animal, left on the side of the road; hurt and unable to move – most likely dying. It was a sound that could break the heart of anyone passing by. Did a dog get run over? Poor thing. The sound continued to grow in volume until she realized it was coming from her, emitting deep from her throat. She gasped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. She bit into the fleshy part of her palm and squeezed her eyes shut. I refuse. She bites down until a thin trickle of blood runs down her wrist. I damn well refuse.

No, she doesn't cry for him that much anymore, but she still does now and then.

Stay tuned for chapter two!!!

Please review!