I wrote you a letter, but you never responded. I guess I could summarize it here, but you might not be able to get the original sentiment. It’s more of the fact that I can’t remember exactly how I felt when I wrote it, or what I felt that entire year, to be honest. I know who was there and, most importantly, who wasn’t, and that I was absent, at least mentally. Sometimes I look back and wonder what would have happened if I weren’t me, if I did things like all the people around me, who everyone says are more reasonable and level-headed. The truth is that I’m sorry about how I treated you. You never deserved to be ignored or taken for granted, but I can’t say that you didn’t set it up for yourself. Watching those people trample you and waiting so long to leave, it was as if you thought you couldn’t do better. Maybe you couldn’t, and maybe you still can’t, but there has to be more out there. If you weren’t so angry and rash all the time, then- no, I didn’t mean that, not completely....
A man in a stiff black suit holding flowers and cheap chocolates walks into a well-lit dining room with untouched plate ware, chandeliers, and landscape paintings. A dull, empty vase and a cold rack of ribs sit on the table by a sad yet otherworldly beautiful woman. Her red lipstick is stained on a wine glass, with the evidence of an empty champagne by her side. Their eyes meet as he places the bouquet into the vase and the chocolates beside. He walks off down the long, dark hall, and the woman grabs the flowers. A thorn cuts her finger, and she calmly wipes the blood on the pristine white tablecloth. Tears drip down her unmoving face as she grabs the rack of ribs and walks off into the dark kitchen behind her. A single petal falls from one of the roses. The hallway in front of the dining room lights up as the television plays a sultry romantic comedy, drowning the woman’s hysterical crying. The sun rises, and the house is unchanged except for many fallen petals. The woman, in a ...