As Jaelin sat in the field, her eyes wet with morning dew, each blade of grass cut into her skin, each jagged green barb a memory of their last night together, a figment of her imagination made whole, a simulacrum which each day crafted into more of his villainy and less of her betrayal. But we saw this coming. We all did. You and I both understand the desire to play the hero. Prevalent in her heart, this revision is flesh, but she can’t remake the end of their union as reality. As each blade digs in, she feels every painful second of their love dissipate. And now we see this too. As his accusations of midnight texts and late nights at the restaurant ring false on her face, but true in her heart.
: andy l. kubai : writer : 