Drip. Drip. Drip.

Streaks of electric periwinkle dance across the dismal skies of Quebec, accompanied by the thundering boom of Zeus’s melodious wrath. 

Her caramel-brittle eyes shatter at the sight of her mother standing alone. The devastating weight of an unrequited love drags her consciousness down to the puddles pooling by her feet. 

The mixture of tears and raindrops that streak down her cheeks go unnoticed by the students rushing out to greet two happy parents, who have dinner in their happy house, and bask in the unity and completeness that her home has lacked since February 9th.

Too young to completely grasp the concept of reciprocation. Too old to remain oblivious to the aching of the heart. Her pulse echoes in her hollow chest-- beating its way through thin skin and thinner bone.

Fingertips ghost over the wet handles of an old, barely-functioning car. Wet clothes squeak against leather. A dry throat constricts like a snake suffocating its prey. 

“I don’t want dad to go.”

“He doesn’t want to stay.”

The words are thick, expired arsenic coating her swollen tongue. There’s mournful foam at the edges of her chasm-like mouth.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Yes, he’s gone. He’s headed south.