AN: I wrote a short Hansy drabble a few days ago and realized that it's actually good? Does anyone else write stuff and later notice that you love it? Anyways, leave review if you liked! (I might continue it 'cause it seems like a good start to some angsty Hansy fic.)

There are three kinds of broken people.

The ones that are whole. Think of the glass dish your mother always used to bring food to other family member's homes with; it was never scratched nor marked come dinnertime. Those with family and friends who loved and protected them like they were the prized jewel of a wealthy family's collection.

The ones who are cracked. Like the old vase in your grandmother's china cabinet that she would yell at you for playing in when you were little. Those people with rough times in their life they fought so hard to get through. They fought harder than they ever had before to defeat their demons and in the end, they got lucky. They won.

Then, there are the ones who are shattered. They tried too hard to pick up the pieces of what was left of themselves, that they collapsed into dust. No one could save them. And they were left on the ground blow away in the wind.

Pansy was different.

She was the fourth kind of broken person in the world.

She was more than cracked, yet less than shattered glass on the pavement during an excruciatingly boiling summer. She was being slowly chipped away by those she cared about. They picked at the cracks on her skin, unknowingly damaging a pristine mask of beauty and grace. Every once in a while, when she felt herself falling apart, she would bend over and put herself back together. It felt as if she were a puzzle, but not one of those small, twenty piece cat puzzles. Pansy was a thousand piece abstract art puzzle someone found at their aunt's yard sale for fifty cents.

She laughed at the thought of herself deserving anything more than what she's got. A home with no family left. A world where she wasn't needed, nor wanted. And the little feeling in the center of her stomach, the one that burned when she felt his hands on her waist or his lips on her thighs. She was burning from the inside out. Her whole being felt like a fire that was begging to be put out. But no one dared.

To tear them away from each would be to destroy balance in the world. Imagine an ocean without water or a forest without trees. Sad, huh? It's dull and empty. She begged him to leave because there was a little voice in her head saying she couldn't deal with that feeling for the rest of her life. And it was fear. The fear of being loved. The fear of loving. Something she was never good at. Not like he was.

He threw himself at her at full speed. And the speed at which he came at her was terrifying. So she let him fall. But what she couldn't see was him grabbing her hand. And he pulled her down with him.

She was done for.

He put her back together just like she ripped him apart. It was a vicious cycle that neither one of them knew how to break. And sometimes, when they were at their best, gasping for air under tangled sheets, their skin gleaming with sweat, they decided they didn't want to.