The sky breaks. Not tears. Shatters. Glass rain. Cold. You look up. You do not blink. You cannot.

Eleanor is gone.

Not dead. Gone. Absorbed. The air tastes of copper and ozone. The ground shakes. The city below blurs. You are high. Too high. Above the clouds. Above the noise. Above her.

You fall.

But you do not hit the ground. You hit the water.

Black water. Still. Endless.

You gasp. Air. Where did the air come from?

You are in a room. White. Square. No corners. Just walls. And a table. And two chairs.

Eleanor is there.

She sits. She looks thin. Her hands are clasped. She does not look at you. She looks at the table.

You stand. You are wet. The water drips from your hair. It falls. It does not wet the floor. It vanishes.

"Hello," she says.

Her voice is flat. Dry. Like paper rubbing on stone.

"I know you," you say. Your voice is a croak. A rusted hinge.

"I know you."

Silence.

It is thick. It presses against your eardrums. You wait. You wait for anger. You wait for fear. You wait for the ghost.

But there is only the room. And the white. And the silence.

"What is this?" you ask.

You do not mean the room. You mean her. You mean us. You mean the life that just broke open like an egg.

"This is the end," she says.

"No."

The word is small. Weak. It dies in the air.

"Yes."

She finally looks at you. Her eyes are dark. Deep. No light in them. No reflection. Just holes.

"Why?" you ask.

You do not know why you ask. You want to scream. You want to grab her. You want to shake her until the truth falls out of her mouth. But your body is heavy. The water is in your lungs. You cannot move.

"Because I was wrong," she says.

"No."

"Yes."

The word is a stone. It drops. It hits the table. It makes no sound.

You try to step forward. Your feet do not move. The floor is soft. Like moss. Like memory.

"Listen," she says.

You listen.

"We were running," she says.

"From what?"

"From ourselves."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only answer."

You close your eyes. You remember the house. The yellow paint. The peeling wallpaper. The smell of lemon polish. You remember the kitchen. The radio. The song we did not like. We played it anyway. Because it was ours.

"I loved you," you say.

The words are heavy. They burn.

"I know."

"Did you?"

She pauses.

The pause is long. It is a chasm.

"I am not sure."

The pain hits you. It is not sharp. It is dull. It is a weight. It settles in your chest. It stays there.

"No," you say.

"You are angry," she says.

"I am alive."

"Are you?"

You open your eyes. The room is changing. The white is fading. The walls are becoming trees. Green. Dark. Wet.

The air changes. It smells of pine. Of rot. Of rain.

The table is gone. The chairs are gone.

You are in a forest.

It is night. But there is light. Moonlight. Silver. Cold.

Eleanor is standing in front of you. She is wearing a dress. White. It is wet. It clings to her.

She is holding something.

You step closer.

It is a bird.

A blue jay. Its wings are spread. Its eyes are closed. It is dead.

She holds it out to you.

"Take it," she says.

"I will not."

"Take it."

You look at the bird. It is small. It is beautiful. It is broken.

"I will not touch it."

"Then you are not me."

The words cut. They are clean. They are cold.

"You are not me," you say.

She nods.

"I am not you. I never was."

You step back. The ground is soft. The leaves are wet.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the part of you that left."

The forest is quiet. The wind stops. The moon stops.

Time stops.

You feel the truth. It is not a fact. It is a feeling. It is a taste. It is the taste of iron.

You left.

Not her. You.

You left the life. You left the home. You left the love.

You ran.

And you brought her with you.

Not physically. Not really.

You brought her in your head. In your heart. In your bones.

You made her a ghost. You made her a mirror. You made her a weapon.

And you used her.

You used her to hate yourself.

You used her to justify your running.

You used her to stay alive.

She is not a person. She is a construct. A defense. A shield.

And she is tired.

"I am tired," she says.

Her voice is soft now. Gentle. Sad.

"I know," you say.

"You must let me go."

"No."

The word is a shout. It echoes. The trees shake. Leaves fall.

"You must."

"I cannot."

"If you do not, we both die."

"I am already dead."

"No. You are hiding."

She steps closer. She is so close. You can see the pores on her skin. You can see the veins in her neck.

"Look at me," she says.

You look.

You see yourself.

Not your face. Not your body.

Your soul.

It is dark. It is twisted. It is broken.

It is the bird.

It is the blue jay.

It is you.

"I cannot save it," she says.

"No one can."

"But you can let it fly."

The bird in her hand twitches. A wing. A flutter.

It is alive.

It was never dead.

You look at her. You look at the bird. You look at the forest.

The forest is not a forest. It is a memory. It is a dream. It is a lie.

You are in the city. You are in the car. You are in the crash.

The airbag deploys. The glass shatters. The sky breaks.

Eleanor is dead.

She has always been dead.

You are alone.

You are in the car. The car is on fire. The heat is intense. The air is thick.

You open the door.

You step out.

You stand in the street. The cars are stopped. The people are watching.

You are naked. The clothes are gone. The skin is burned. The hair is singed.

You are alive.

You look up. The sky is clear. The stars are out.

You feel the pain. It is everywhere. It is in your arms. It is in your legs. It is in your chest.

You walk.

You walk to the edge of the street. You walk to the sidewalk. You walk to the park.

The park is dark. The benches are empty.

You sit.

You sit on the cold metal. You feel the cold. It is good. It is real.

You close your eyes.

You remember the bird.

You remember the flight.

You remember the fall.

You remember the love.

It was not a mistake. It was a choice.

You chose to run.

You chose to hide.

You chose to break.

And now you are here.

Broken.

Alone.

Alive.

You open your eyes.

The sun is rising.

The light is gray. It is soft. It is new.

You stand up.

Your legs shake. Your arms shake. Your hands shake.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

You walk.

You walk away from the park. You walk away from the fire. You walk away from the past.

You do not look back.

You do not look for her.

She is not there.

She is in you.

She is in the air.

She is in the light.

She is in the silence.

You are not a ghost.

You are not a mirror.

You are a man.

You are a survivor.

You are a wanderer.

You are free.

The city wakes up. The noise returns. The engines. The voices. The life.

You are part of it.

You are in it.

You are of it.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The road is long.

The road is straight.

The road is yours.

You do not stop.

You do not look back.

You do not forget.

You carry it.

The weight.

The pain.

The truth.

You carry it.

You walk.

The sun rises higher. The shadows shrink. The world becomes clear.

You are here.

You are now.

You are enough.

You walk.

The end.