I managed to make it to my room before the bawling began. I flopped down into my bed, piling my pillows on top of my head. America once teased me about being able to fit a football team inside it. The thought only made my muffled cries louder. She promised. She promised that she loved me. I could still hear her voice, so confident and breathtakingly harmonious, just like when she sung, saying "Maxon Schreave, I love you." And I had truly believed her. What a fool I was. I needed her. I needed the sound of her voice, the beat of her heart, the looks of pure adoration she gave me. But she lied. She didn't love me. The worst part was that I knew I would do whatever I could to reunite her with her lover, because even now, I knew I would do anything for her to make her happy. I had always wondered about what the word "heartbreak" really meant. Now I knew.
I let out a guttural scream of rage. I couldn't let her into my head like this! I pulled myself out of bed, my tears now mostly of anger, and snatched a corner of America's Selection application photo from my large photo collage. Before I could change my mind, I tore it wildly from the wall. Now there was a large gap in the wall, with little leftover shreds of white photography paper left behind. I went into a frenzy, ripping photographs of America from the wall, in the positions I knew they were in from countless sleepless hours wasted on memorizing every ridge and curve of her face. My collage now looked like a child's work of art. Finally, I reached the last photograph of her. It was the one with her arms flung around my mother's neck. I reached out to tear it, but something stopped me. I suddenly realized that I didn't feel any better. In fact, I felt worse. With a moan, I collapsed onto my bed yet again. I forced myself to think about other things, things I enjoy. Photography-no, not photography. Hunting. I glanced over at my rack of wooden guns. I crawled out of bed and undid the latch of the glass case that held my hunting guns safe. My favorite gun gleamed at me, a small pistol that had become my best weapon over the years. A tiny part of me wanted to take it out. I didn't want life to go on for any longer. But… no, I couldn't do it. I was still expected to be the next ruler of Illéa, whether or not America stood next to me.
My sobs continued in irregular bursts of pain and sorrow, but there weren't any more tears in me. Bitterly, I thought of that as my last present to America: all of my tears.
A ray of light fell across me. I turned towards the door and saw Kriss peeking tentatively through my door. I knew that I looked like a complete idiot, crouched in the middle of my floor with my tearstained face, but made no effort to do anything about it. At this point, I was past caring.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
I grunted, which she took as an invitation. Slowly, as if trying not to scare me, she crossed the room towards me. Gently, she touched my arm. I looked up at her kind, caring face, which was so obviously feeling my pain on my behalf. She didn't say anything, and neither did I. We didn't need to. It was enough that she was here.
In that moment, my brain fully understood that I would have to pick Kriss. That she would be my wife. And it was a comforting thought, in a way. I knew that Kriss would always be there for me, ready to console me after long days ruling the country, always full of empathy. But my deadened, weak heart felt nothing. Regardless, Kriss would be my choice, and maybe someday, my heart would be able to feel for someone other than America.