She heaves herself up from the coffee brown cushions of the comfy furniture with the glass in her right hand, “I’m gonna get more water.” Her eyes, the color of melted chocolate and steaming hot cocoa, glaze over me and lock onto my own pair, “Do you need more too?” And then, together, our gaze slips down to the dark wood coffee table and the full, untouched glass sitting on it. She smiles again, this one apologetic and bittersweet on her features, and turns to leave for the kitchen. She makes it about halfway before I blurt out a three word phrase that stops her dead in her tracks in shock, but fills me with a swelling pride in my heart. A phrase I long to hear her whisper in my ears for as long as I live. “I love you,” I say, my words bouncing back on the walls, reaching her ears in an instant, and letting a smile play briefly on my lips.
    But the happiness would soon be shattered, like the cup that slips from her fingers and crashes to the floor, splintering apart into millions of shards of glittering material onto the slabs of tile below, and would be traded for fear and guilt and horror. In the blink of an eye, a fraction of a second, I am there by her side, like I always have been, stooping to pick up the biggest and sharpest fragments for her, unconsciously trying to protect her and letting instinct take over. “I’m sorry,” the words tumble out of my mouth, soft and worried, as I gather the glass with one hand; the cup that perfectly describes our relationship. Broken, shattered, splintered, smashed, cracked, ruined. A word floats into my ears after that long stream and whispers its’ name to me, “Done.” She stays standing where she is, silent as if she hadn’t heard my apology, and rigid in shock, tucking a strand of her thick light brown hair behind her ear, squinting hard at the shimmering floor. Maybe she thinks of the symbolism of the cup and our relationship as she stares at the sparkling, shining remains, but somehow I doubt she’s thinking of anything.
    After I straighten, towering a few inches above her, she takes the broken from my cupped hands, and the words swell up inside of me, and I feel like I’m drowning in them: ‘Bent, I’m sorry, shattered, I love you, cracked, I’m sorry, ruined, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.’ While she patiently brushes the leftover sprinkles from my fingers, tickling my skin, I stare at her with love shining bright in my eyes. Those eyes meet mine, hardened around the rims and soft in the middle, and I find myself unable to look away and my mouth is opening again, “I’m sorry, Sulli,” I whisper, her hardened eyes smelting into a shade of gentle chestnut, and all trace of anger vanishes from them. But her lips remain pursed together as the last of the sparkles gather in her hands, and she leaves my side with the warmth and the joy tucked away in her pocket, stolen from me, and the shards in her hands.
    ‘She didn’t say it back,’ I think, and I plop myself back down onto my spot on the couch. And then another thought, dark and cruel and unpleasant, rushes into my brain while she empties her hands of the broken glass; our friendship, my heart, and shakes the shimmering specks off of her fingers. ‘She doesn’t feel the same.’ And then the cold, hollow feeling was back, drowning me again in that dark ocean of emotion that threatened to leak from my eyes as I watched her take her seat carefully: with cushions and throw pillows between us. The invisible barrier that had formed between us appearing in physical form. Her eyes, the color, cloud over, and she looks sad. When she finally speaks, the soft, gentle voice that used to bring me comfort and make my heart flutter now haunts my ears and doesn’t sound nearly as sweet as it did the day before.
    What is happening to me? To us? “It’s getting late.” I don’t say anything. I’m stunned and hurt beyond belief. I wore my heart on my sleeve for Sulli, for years, and I was starting to get tired of being thrown into the pit of endless emotion, so I leaned in close to her, feeling like I’d lost enough to throw our relationship out entirely. The beautiful girl leaned away, and I kept moving forward.
    Three times she backed away, and the last time I was so wrecked in my head that I stopped and a tear dropped from my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice strangled as I try to control my emotions while I rushed out of the front door, struggling with the keys to my car. Sulli’s there in an instant, running at me and enveloping me in a tight back hug, trying to calm me down. But it has the opposite effect: if I can’t have her, I don’t wanna touch her. But she’s stronger than me, and she is my weakness, even more so when she turns me around and runs a hand through my hair and whispers softly in my ear, telling me that it’s okay to cry and she’s here. I’m slumping on her shoulder, my tears staining her shirt, feeling her hands circle around my waist. When the stream dries up and I’ve stopped shaking in her arms, she pulls away to face me, wiping my tears away with her thumb.
    “Krystal,” she hums, “you just surprised me, that’s all,” and then she kisses me. Soft and true. Right on my mouth. And right then, I just felt complete.