Isabella was curled up on her windowsill, a box of his things residing on her lap and a fresh box of tissues at the ready. A full moon was out tonight, she noticed, smiling halfheartedly at its beauty. She gazed at the box with apathy (was she really ready to rip her heart out again? Was she ready to remember the tears? Was she ready…at all?) but she exhaled a deep breath and forced her trembling fingers to open the cardboard lid to a box full of memories, full of things she probably doesn't want to remember when there are even tear ducts in her eyes.
Instantly brokenness rushed over her senses, she wanted to run under her covers and sob until there was nothing left and she could try hard enough to forget the world that she might actually run out of tears. It was ridiculous, what a slave to a box of photographs and musky scent and dusty moments she was. He was coming to pick them up tomorrow, if she ever wanted to look through them at all now would have to be the time. The more cowardly part of her wanted to just close the box and try to get through another sleepless night, but she ignored it.
It was time to start to feel better.
And I don't care if I cry, it should hurt, you said goodbye…I'm gonna take my time, till I wake up one morning and I find that I feel better.