All she could do was write letters.

Observe him from afar.

Let that wistful smile tug at the corners of while her heart shattered into little slivers.

She was too dangerous for him to be with, they both knew that very well but that didn’t stop him from feathering kisses along her temple or him from buying her flowers, even plucking them out of Miss Kim’s garden next door. Needless to say, they weren’t on amicable terms with their cranky neighbour. But really, the happiness, the laughter, the nights of cuddling on the couch with cheesy, romance films flickering on their small black and white screen were mere delusions.

He knew her past would catch up to them.

She knew the past would catch up to them.

But they denied it and life carried on.

That night was still burned into her mind like someone had branded it with a red-hot iron. The memory was painful, still fresh, so real that she could still taste the blood on her lips and smell the metallic smell of knives as they grated against flesh. She had been selfish and that had cost him his life and half her heart too. She had been livid, the embodiment of a possessed animal as she tore at their clothes and fired bullets into their heads. But it wasn’t enough, it never was.

She was found dead later that night with a rope around her neck.

Some say she died in the hands of cold-blooded murderers.

Some say she committed suicide.

I say she died of heartbreak.