He left her writing in pain.
His last memory of her, that would override all the love of the others, would be of her hurt and frail.
Her shoulders curved concave, hunching in protectively close to her messy desk. Hunching not to protect her desk, but her chest and the hurt of her tender heart.
The tears he had caused, crawled a scream down her apples.
A few of the saddest tears even found their way to join in matrimony with those inky words, smudging kisses with her heartbreak.
She didn’t say one word with her lips to him, she didn’t have to.
That picture of her, in that state, would torture his sleepless nights for the rest of his life. Maybe even beyond death. That beautiful forlorn scene of her, it was that powerful over him. She would haunt his dark places.
The knowing he had caused it, her misery. The knowing the weight of it was his responsibility and the shame that it brought to him, it was the first time he’d felt desolate about a conscious choice.
It made him doubt his competence as a human.
More than they needed each other, they needed her words; and she only wrote words when she was broken.
It was for her.
He loved her, but he left her, writing in pain.