Don't own 'em. Probably never will.
"I can't do this anymore Sara."
She looks up from the microscope she'd been peering into.
"You want to take a break? I think Greg made a fresh batch of coffee."
She starts to make her way past me through to the break room but I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her back to face me.
"I don't want coffee Sara. I want you to tell me what's going on?"
She shrugs her shoulders.
"Come on Sara you know what I'm talking about. The late night visits, sneaking out of my apartment in the morning. You spend the night with me and then act like nothing's happened."
She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair.
"I just wanted to make it better. I just wanted this feeling to go away."
I frown in confusion. What is she talking about?
"What do you mean?"
"When I was a little girl my grandmother gave me a music box. I used to sit for hours listening to the melody and watching the ballerina inside spin round and round. One day I was carrying it downstairs and I tripped and I dropped it. The music still played but the ballerina wouldn't move. She just stood still. I tried to get it fixed but no matter what they did she just wouldn't turn. I still have the box. I listen to it sometimes and look at the ballerina willing her to move again but she never does. She's broken. Don't you see Nick? I'm like the music box. There's a part of me that can't be fixed. I'll always be broken. I'll always be the ballerina."
She gently removes her hand from my grasp and starts to walk away.
"You don't have to be the ballerina."
She turns around, smiles sadly and softly puts her hand to my face,
"But I am."
THE END.
