Belle's Petals.

She grasped tightly to her purple flower, strangling it unintentionally. Yet when she looked down at the battered green stem, a fire eurpted in her heart. Each petal became a word that I had said. With each one she riped off, she repeated a word. When the petals ran out, she started to attack the beautiful yellow center. The pistil, I believed it to be called.
“I. am. leaving. and. I. don’t. believe. I. will. return.â€?
She whispered ‘return’, as if she could seperate that one word from the rest of the sentence. As if she could make it the only word I said.
For some reason I felt the urge to apologize. To run to her delicate white arms. To pick up the petals and place them around her smooth face.
Yet I couldn’t say a thing.
All I could do was pick up a pen and open my moleskine journal. I sat down right on the floor, in the small pile of petals before her. I could feel her eyes on me as I wrote. This was the only way to tell her why. Why I had to break her heart.

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