There were signs from the beginning — you always had that little, nagging voice in the back of your head somewhere around the second time you told her you loved her. The first time you did, she responded immediately — without a heartbeat of hesitation. The second time you said it, it was almost as if you had crossed over the event horizon and couldn't turn back anymore — you had to be cohesive with your earlier manoeuvre — because that's what the voice always called them...manoeuvres.
She was so blinded by those three words that you thought were a good idea. You scorched her retinas, and now she was seeing phosphenes of the person who told her you were there for her. All her fears — all the things you tried to smooth out, and the creases you tried to erase and replace with a smile scrawled on her lips by your clumsy pen — they were invisible to your own needs, your own fears. She was blinded by you, and you — you were blinded by yourself, too.
So she pulled away. Or you did. It depends which of you we're asking. It depends on what mood you (or her) are in and how much vitamin D you're getting and how often you're getting laid on the side — which is, of course, not at all. But regardless of who it was, she got her sight back; she saw what she had been so blind to all along. The corona caressed her mind and she knew what she was seeing was an eclipse, and it didn't matter how terrifyingly beautiful you were — you weren't the sun, and she began to freeze inside.
"You just faded away."
You can chase the chain of causality as far back as you want — really — but if you want to be honest with yourself, the first mistake was the first time you pulled the pin. A supernova, and then — well...you just never stopped exploding.
-M
