She takes the keys out of the ignition and looks through the windscreen up to the balcony.

She sits for just over an hour. Someone is playing music from the apartment downstairs, but it is muffled and she can’t make out the words.

She winds down the window and lets a breeze float through. She closes her eyes.

After a deep chest rattling breath in and out again, her shaky fingers move to the door handle.

She watches each step up to the first floor, her feet drag one by one, she grips the banister with all the strength she has left.

She traces the numbers on the door. 143. 14/3. She almost laughs.

The base of her clenched fist hits the door. Once. Twice.

A girl answers, leaning on the handle, so unassumingly.

He’s asleep in the bed. She can make out the scar on his shoulder blade from where she stands.

She is weak, pathetic. She is falling apart.

“Please give him back to me.” She whispers. Her heart cracks right through the middle.

The girl stands there. The girl just fucking stands there.

He stirs and she backs away, her spine hits the cold hard steel of the balcony.

The girl closes the door.

143.

She walks to the car, the breeze blows her hair over her shoulders.

She can still smell him. He is on her, in her, always with her.

She tied herself to him; fastened her future to his. She bound those knots so securely, so deeply. But as quick as someone can tug on the end of shoelace – they are unraveled now.