She left in the middle of the night.

She and he had gone to bed together, they’d lain in each other’s arms, slowly drifting off to sleep as usual. But not tonight. Tonight she had stayed awake. When his breaths had slowed down and his arms loosened their hold on her, she had gotten up and quietly gone to the closet to take out the suitcase she’d packed earlier in the day. Then, she stood above him, watching as he slept, memorizing the lines of his face, memorizing his calm. When she felt her resolve shaking she turned around and grabbed the bag and opened the door to leave. At the last moment she paused and turned back to look at her love sleeping, oblivious to the turmoil and confusion he’d face in the morning. She whispered a soft “I love you” and turned her back on him.

Something that has been rolling around in my mind since I read this quote, "If I could, I would shrink myself, sink through your skin to your blood cells, remove whatever makes you hurt, but I am too weak to be your cure."

I definately think this is going to turn into a story or oneshot. Now a story, Not Your Cure.