He asked me to log into Yahoo Messenger.
He ordered me to turn on my webcam.
My heart fluttered with ecstasy. I hadn’t seen him for two days.
His face was pale, as always.
He picked them up one after another and showed them to me.
The dark blue denim jeans.
The grey and white shirt.
The wine red tie.
The dusky brown wallet.
The woven black bracelet.
They had been carefully collected over the past two years, the tangible evidence of my undying love for him.
Oh yes, and the journal too.
My journal. To him. That told the story of us from the day it had all begun.
And then, silently, he set them on fire.
With the really sleek, rose gold cigarette lighter.
The lighter that demanded from me, my dinner for two months before I could afford to lay my hands on it.
How was it possible that all the salt water brimming in my eyes was incapable of dousing the fire?
As I continued to watch the evidence slowly melt away, I couldn’t necessarily tell the exact color of that brightness.
Strangely enough, he hadn’t laid a single finger on me.
On his balcony floor lay my heart.
And my soul.
In a pile of ashes.
Without a point of resurrection.