The world according to her was a beautiful, broken thing. She could stand atop mountains, taking in the seemingly infinite landscape of green, but in the end this would not satisfy her. She could take charge of hoards and reign men who once kept her locked in her own mind, but even that would not satiate her hunger. The only thing that would keep her sane was the reciprocation of a love lost before it began, a desperate attempt to feel something yet again, a failure of her own design. She yearned for the touch of her mirror image, one she has been without for longer than her ego cares to admit, the only one that left her shattered and torn. How could she rebuild a soul that had melted into a puddle on the floor? How could she feel the emotions that helped her stand strong when her body collapsed in a panic on the living room floor? How could she survive without her lifeline, without the person she’d allowed herself to be dependent upon? This world of hers fell in a matter of minutes, with the silence echoing between her sobs and into the landline they held in two hands from across the country. She began to see this love for what it had been, the end of their chapter. You could find the storybook covered in dust, resting unbothered on the shelf of someone who once loved her more than she realized.