the hill bore the red beacons, synchronizing with the grooves in the highway. But through the frosted windows of her core, they were nothing but a drawing she'd seen often . She had abused herself, turned herself inside-out for them. And they abandoned her for their own fantasies. Perhaps she was too possessive. Perhaps they were her fantasy and she was a hypocrite who was too bitter to move on.

To move on. Did she have the strength to do such a thing? They were her pillars, and she wanted to be theirs. But they sought no solace in her words or arms. They hardened themselves and toughed it out, so why couldn't she so simply replace them with her self-reliance she kept for the rainier days? What was it that made them so necessary to her? And then she realized that her necessity was a type of fear. That their absence would inevitably mean some absence of her own self. The same absence she was feeling now. Empty, numb, and driving the part.