secondhand heartbreak

i. fairytale

i suppose i should warn you that this is no love story. no fluff, no sentiment. there is no happy ending.

this is a warning.

this is a cautionary tale.

i see the way she looks at him,
like she aims to go for the jugular and sink her teeth in,
like she wants to take a piece of him.

(she doesn't know he won't have enough to give.)

i notice the marks he leaves on
her collarbones,
her hips,
the underside of her jaw.
bruises bloom on pale skin, and she proudly showcases them like she earned each and every one. he claims her, and she lets him.

(he doesn't know he can't keep her forever.)

i crash at his place, watch as her things end up scattered throughout the apartment.

hoodies thrown over the back of the shitty futon he's had since freshman year, the one i helped him pick out. her thrillers stacked against his novels. mugs clustered on the kitchen counter for all the coffee she drinks.

but there's nothing that confirms that's its her, and no evidence that she stays long when she is there. no designated drawer, no extra toothbrush lined against his.

it's like they're already trying to soften the blow. pain and heartbreak and their demise is inevitable. they are well-versed in the this type of pain — they know what happens next.

and it's kind of tragic how irreparably broken they both are, how perfect they are for each other in that regard, because the world is cruel like that.

i don't understand the way they work, but neither do they.

that's kind of the problem.