All Hope.

It’s dark in the basement. The only light comes from the crack under the door, and the candle burning softly, dimly, on the old trunk they used as a coffee table.

There’s a mug between her hands, and her lips are parted as if to take a sip, poised an inch away. It’s been a half hour and that sip will never come. A blanket is wrapped loosely around her feet, draping itself over her shoulders.

Her eyes focus on a point near the candle, but she isn’t watching the flame. She watches the old antennae TV, the TV that hasn’t worked for years. She’s rapt, paying attention to the memories and not the screen.

The plywood stairs creak as if about to crumble as he descends. His socks creep up behind her, and he settles next to her on the couch.

Her eyes swoop to face him, but it’s the wrong man, not the one she wants to see. They quickly dart to her lap, and then, as if forced, back to the TV.

His eyes are dark and his hands flat.

She breaks the silence, her eyes blinking defiantly into the black. “Love is pointless.”

And he turns to her. “Do you really think that?”

She swallows and puts down the cup, wrapping the blanket more firmly around her. “Yes, I do.”

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” he asks.

Her gaze flies to him and back, skeptical, and then her voice, like her eyes, is defiant. “No, nothing. And please don’t try.”

“Why?” he inquires.

“Out of respect.” She sniffs, and it’s not entirely fake.

“So he really meant a lot to you.”

“Yes,” she confirms. “He really did.”

Silence ensues, and he’s uneasy. Calculating, trying to figure something out.

“And how long did he live here, again?”

She glares at him momentarily. Then: “Four months.”

“It really shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”

“No, it shouldn’t be. You’re right like you always are.” She represses a sigh. “But it is. Okay? It is.”

Her voice screams unwelcome, but he continues to trespass.

“You could do so much better than that loser… really.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leans forward, grasping the candle tight in her fist and brings it towards her face. Now her profile is aflame to him, the rest of the room undistinguishable.

And she blows it out. Puff. The smoke rises as clouds.

She places the candle back on the trunk.

He takes a different approach, now that he’s clearly upset her.

“I mean… better to have loved and lost, right?” He tries a chuckle, but it falls flat.

She turns back to face him, but he can hardly tell what her face may be saying. “To some.”

Her voice is so quiet. It sounds like porcelain, so peaceful and delicate. It rings in the room, moving straight to his ears, and part of it is thrown upward with the smoke and the tension. Her breath seems to pool in his throat, and he swallows.

“You’ll get through this,” he says. “No matter how much you think you won’t.”

“I am not stupid,” she tells him.

“Well, I know that.” He’s taken aback.

“I am perfectly aware that I will get through this. What else can I do? What else is there to do? I am not like those stupid other girls. I am not torn apart because of him. I am not going to–to commit suicide or something else stupid like that.” Her words are measured, and they come precisely like a metronome.

“I… I didn’t say you were.”

“Then what did you think I was going to do? Not get through it? How can someone not get through it?”

“I’m just trying to be supportive, is all. I’m trying to be nice.”

“You’re failing miserably,” she tells him. “In fact, I would rather you leave.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he says automatically.

A pause.

“That’s what they all say.” It’s so quiet he can barely hear it, but it’s then that he realizes what he’s said.

Tears are dripping off the tip of her nose, golden in the reflecting light from under the door. They fall fast, one after the other jumping towards her lap. It all of a sudden seems cold, even though the temperature is positively toasty.

“Oh, no, I didn’t–I mean–” his brow creases. He’s upset. He’s ruined it. “I’m… I’m not lying.”

“So you’ll sit here until you rot and die.” She throws a red-rimmed glance in his direction. “Good.”

He blinks. Words claw at his throat, trying to leap out and defend him, but he chokes them down. He lies back on the cushions, defeated.

Her crying is in earnest now, and she’s sniffing and snorting and making all sorts of unattractive noises. Her arms wrap the blanket tighter, tighter, trying to keep a broken heart from falling onto the floor.

He sees this, and he knows.

“You loved him,” he murmured.

“No!” she cries, shaking her head.

“You did. I know you did. And it meant something.” He pauses, hating the pain he sees on her face, but he keeps going. “Denying that would just be an insult. Didn’t he mean anything to you? He meant everything to you, don’t lie. And now that he’s gone, you want everything else to be gone, too. Even the love. You don’t want the love anymore because it did this to you.”

She’s shaking with sobs, and her head is shaking, too. No, no, no, no, no.

“It’s not pointless.”

“It is!” Her voice is rough and blubbery and uncontrolled. No porcelain, not anymore.

“Please don’t say that. Four months isn’t pointless.”

There is silence for a bit, because it seems like she’s holding her breath. And then she explodes.

“He didn’t even say goodbye!” She launches herself to him, her face burying itself in the cloth of his shirt. His arms protect her. His stubble scratches her forehead.

“You loved him.”

“Of course I did.” She sniffs. “I still do.”

They sit for a while in the dark basement, waiting for the tears to dry. When they do, she stands. The blanket comes with her. He looks up at her, his eyes lighter now, his hands curled and soft.

She looks at him as if for the first time and whispers, “Thanks.”

She walks up the stairs and opens the door, and the basement is flooded with light.