She curled herself in a ball on their bed, willing herself to breathe while moving as few muscles as possible. Maybe, if she was still enough, the world would forget she existed and would leave her alone.

“Shannon?”

Or maybe not.

“Shannon, I’m sorry, I just -“ He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to finish, because they both knew what he was going to say; they both knew it would end the exact same way as it always did: they’d make up. There was always tomorrow to ruin. But not this time.

“I don’t think I’ll come back,” he told her.