"I don't love you anymore, Elsa."

You are too shocked at first to do anything but stare. Maybe you misunderstood her; maybe she was joking. But her lip is quivering and there's tears stinging your eyes.

This just cannot be.

Suddenly you're ranting and raving, pleading and begging, but she won't look at you. You grab at her and she jerks away like you burn her, like you scald her.

Like she really doesn't love you after all.

Before she leaves, she looks at you. You are so blinded by sorrow and disbelief that you cannot recognize the look on her face. You think it's pity, but you are too afraid to step forward and ask. You're frozen, paralyzed.

She hugs you and you notice she's crying; she's the one leaving but she's crying and you just stand there, stupid and sobbing.

You close all the doors in the house that night, as if maybe you could hide from your emotions behind wood and drywall.

But nothing could hide you from your own mistakes.

"I'm willing to try one last time."

Her words are on repeat in your mind, tearing you apart and building you up again; a vicious cycle of hope and despair but at least it was something, something more than the nothing that swallowed you whole all week.

The something is almost more terrifying than the nothing, though. Because now, now you have to look at yourself. Now you have to admit that you were wrong to close the door.

Now you feel burned, your heart seared by her agonizing confession in the days prior. How could she hide it from you for so long? How didn't you notice?

You don't know what chokes you more: the fact that she lied or the fact that you believed it every single time.

You had just been so happy. You had been so happy to be free, to just occupy the same space as her, that you didn't realize how cold you were to her, how cold you were just in general.

Love didn't thaw everything, apparently; you still needed a personal ice pick on a daily basis. You had been slacking in that regard.

You vow to change things, to melt the ice, open the door, but you're afraid that it's too late. You're absolutely terrified that it's too late in her mind, and that it's too late in yours.

You're terrified that no matter what, your hand will never leave that doorknob, ready to slam it shut in a moment's notice.

"I want to fall in love with you again."

Her words are softer now, as are you. You worried yourself in circles for weeks, and you could only do it for so long until you collapsed. It was then that you had to stare at the door and decide if it was worth it.

If your fear was worth more than anything else in your life; if the constant worry and dread felt better than that happiness you felt before.

No.

You grit your teeth, and with a new resolve you open the door. The doorknob slips out from beneath your fingers.

Anna is outside, waiting. She smiles at you and you smile back. It felt better than anything.

Life falls back into patterns after that, but not the same ones as before. You don't feel as cold all the time, and neither does she. You stop bickering, yelling, throwing things. You stop fighting entirely.

At times you don't even notice the reality of the situation, that she doesn't kiss you goodnight, or that she doesn't say it back when you tell her you love her.

(It's only fair, anyway. How long did she knock at your door before you finally answered?)

At times, it feels like nothing has changed, and everything is back to normal. You're happy.

You trust her like she never broke your heart.

"I love you."

It was like she never stopped, like there was never doubt that she returned your passion just as fervently as you gave it.

You're both happy this time. You talk, the way you were supposed to; you support each other, praise each other, comfort each other.

Everyone else is smiling, too. They no longer whisper to her that she should leave, that you're a monster.

You don't feel like a monster, either.

And the doorknob collects dust.