She could see it. It reflected in the day’s sky and the cement that led the way to the rest of the walk home that was never long enough. His hand was between hammer and nail as his eyes so obviously begged for sympathy that she wouldn’t give him. The sympathy of a dying mans last shotgun shell... a trigger only a best friend could pull. She was smart enough and wised up to his role as the winy bitch that he was that swore a hole in his arm that he didn’t have any friends. It was always the way she left him in shambles to the streets littered with broken glass and something else sharp he could fall on.

"Ok." he said after a silence that broke the air from the poison it carried.

What he really wanted to says "no one loves you like I love you". All she wanted from him was to be left alone. He was only another burden, another unwanted attachment. She couldn’t love him because she didn’t know how to love herself. She was so cold that it chilled him and permeated into his actions.

However unwise it was to speak he had done it one better. He tore his sunken mood from the ground and looked at her. He noticed that she fought the weight that resembled him in a way on her shoulders. She fought it by pulling forward on the straps of her book bag but just like their relationship, it only pulled back enough for her to walk hunched with one shoulder when she wore it.

The transition came sudden and smoother than ...

"My book bag is so heavy." she said to him as if she were talking to herself

There was always a motive to the madness and a bit of black in white with her. He always said too many broken things like that of the suicide of true chivalry and had too many broken dreams of her in a good mood. Her good mood was always that of a florescent white hallway that kept all of their little white lies. And as the paint chipped it became more obviously honest that they knew they were being lied to.