Story-telling

A boy and a girl sit on the porch late at night, the only light coming from the tip of his cigarette. She hates that he smokes. It hurts that he won't stop for her. She won't say anything though, as always. It's one hurt in many.
He's trying to break it off with her. He's trying to let her down easy. She knows it. So she waits, a tight pressure in the region of her chest that just won't ease. She hopes he won't take too long. Already her hands are shaking in the dark and she's not too sure she can summon speech.
She remembers when there was laughter. She remembers when there were soft touches and stolen kisses. The abyss lay before her and she remembers thinking 'oh, this looks like fun.' She remembers the dizzy joy of the fall. The glory of it all. And for a while, it was. But now the fall is almost over and there's nothing below to break it. She tenses in anticipation of the shattering of flesh and bones. Heart.
Some day in the future she'll hear from friends about 'the one'. She'll feel her heart rip once more into little pieces. The knowledge that she wasn't enough...not for him. She'll spend days and nights praying there won't be chance meetings. She'll practice smiling before the mirror so everyone else won't see how much it matters.
For now, she sits waiting. Wondering if she can let him go without begging. Hoping the tears will wait until he's gone. Because he hates scenes and even now, on the eve of goodbye, she will do what he likes. Then she will go inside and write of her pain.