Darling,

"I'm sorry," she whispers to him softly-her lips pressed against his ear. He stares at the ceiling blankly as she continues to mumble familiar words in his ear about all the things that are wrong. He thinks maybe he might cry, but he also thinks maybe he might not. He thinks he might feel like he doesn't feel anything; that her breath isn't warm against his neck and that all the mistakes they'd made hadn't woven thin layers of dust along the window sill. Soon he began to pick apart the dead skin cells from the air, watching them lightly move from side to side before disappearing.

Her words were light, tickling his neck as her hand lay softly across his chest, her fingers tapping his shoulder lightly. Her tears wet the pillow beneath his head as she tries to breathe evenly. And even as he wishes to reach over and hold her, kiss away the sadness, get lost in the quiet rustle of the sheets, he feels too much like he'd much rather just keep count of how many times the ceiling fan turns round.

When she's done she holds tightly to his chest, her head resting against his shoulder, her eyes closed tightly to try and remove the pain. He's not holding her back, not like he thought about doing. Not like he wanted to do. But his arms were heavy, his eyes glued to the motion of the white blades above him.