Where This Story Ends

Just in a blink of an eye, she says. Then it's gone.

I won't smile this time. The tears won't let me.

Gone, she says again. I stay silent as if I did not hear anything. My stillness is my response to her. She knows that. She knows it too well, I think. In my stillness, she sees clearly the thoughts that run through my head. Every pain, every pleasure. All the sadness, and all the smiles.

She picks up her lighter and lights her cigarette. Just like the cigarette, every part of her that glows quickly fade away into ashes. It's night. The glow of the cigarette is the only light left unswallowed by the nocturnal darkness. I can't even see her face clearly. It's only her outline, her vague silhoutte that I can see. But I know, she can see me as clearly as she would if it was daytime.

Nothing else happens. Nothing else comes. It's now so late it's early. Here is where this story ends. For now.