She wasn't a gentle person. Or, no; she was gentle but not kind. A dangerous mixture.
It was unfair, the way she held onto him, her head against his chest as if she wanted to hear his heart break. He wouldn't deny her the right, would shatter to a million pieces if it made any of this easier.
And how cruel could she be, to kiss him while crying? His gut twisted, a terrified mixture of anger and despair, her hand unfairly soft against his cheek. Desperate for her to stay, he held onto her, tried to communicate by his lips alone his frantic internal mantra of "I love you, I do, I love you," but she wasn't listening anymore. It was too late.
Softly, she eased off her toes, and he continued to hold her up, as if, if he kissed her long enough, he could change her mind, could make her stay.
He was cold as he kissed her, stiff and unrelenting. He probably hated the fact that she was crying; crying always upset him. Straining, she remained on her toes, holding herself to his height, hoping that if she waited long enough, he would ask her to stay. But no. He simply let her break the kiss, his grip hard as if to remind her that she was still his, no matter where she went. She was his.
His breath shook against her lips, and for a moment she thought he might speak, but he said nothing, did nothing. Leaving her heart in her place, she stepped back, feeling the gliding weight of his hand slip off of her arm, the absence of him accumulating all at once, negative space made manifest. Not willing to meet his eyes, she looked away, turning quickly before she could change her mind.