Her face contracted into a wrinkled mass; her lips puckering, her eyes crumpling, her forehead a scribble of lines. Her upper lip pulled back to reveal a neat row of pearly whites that bit into her lower lip so hard that a river of red trickled down, weaving through the maze of lines down her neck. Her eye lashes soon had a string of dewy beads hanging from them, some escaping from the corner of her eyes, beginning its journey downwards.

I brought up my hand and covered my eyes against the ugly sight of myself, whispering a question into the air,

"Why?"

Instead of the obvious answer of silence, a gust of angry wind blew through my curtains, sending everything askew and out of place, just like how my world has become, just like how my world is. Books, papers, pencils, pens all landed at my feet. I stared at them blankly, watching invisible fingers flip the pages of the book at an unthinkable speed. Watching the pencils and pens loll about without an aim. Watching the papers float towards my door, trying to escape. Watching my tears seep into the smooth marble flooring, staining the seemingly flawless tile with big, round circles of the shards of my broken heart, lies, and unmerciful truths.

Let's just leave everything as they should be, shall we?