The Note

She placed her pen down as a tear slid down her face. She sucked a deep breath, the air filling her lungs. Her chest ached, constricted with invisible ropes she never seemed to know their existence. Then, with a surge of energy and frustration, she gripped the pen from the table and tossed it with all her might beside. It smacked against the wall and hit the ground.

A significant gesture. A significant fall.

Her eyes narrowed to the words she had written on the brown paper before her. Her left hand, reaching to her chest, pulled her dress, as if tearing it apart, attempting to show her skin.

On the note, it was written:

I remember the time when you held my hand and told me I was yours.
I remember the moment when I leaned against your shoulders.
I remember your soothing voice whispering "I love you."
I remember the beautiful skies we sat under.
I remember the melody of your voice.
Where, then, are you now?
Just a mere memory?
Do you love me?
No.

You don't love me.

I love - yet hate - you.