When the tears ceased to rain down her face she was surprised. She had been used to crying for a while, her eyes felt bare and her vision was blurred. Not daring to glimpse in a mirror, she choked down the bile that had built up in her throat, and let the formless couch swallow her. She knew that the makeup she tried so hard to apply was smudged across her horrid excuse for a face. This was why when she left her apartment every morning, she waited until she was outside to put on the glasses she needed to see. The remaining tatters of the self esteem she used to value, could not take such beatings. It was better that she didn’t see that uneven skin and amorphic face. Yes, it was better that way. And it hurt less if she told herself that those were the reasons  he left.
She closed her eyes, but not like before when she was trying to stop the currents of tears. She closed her eyes lightly and remembered his face. She felt dreadfully cliche, as if the pain that stifled her breath and those black long arms of suicidal depression had tangled every girl before her. Before the tectonic plates of her heart shifted and prioritized something anew, she told herself that relationships and social lives came second. Academics and careers will make you happy. When you’re happy and successful you’ll be wanted. But that was before she realized how hard it is to have such strong feelings and how much harder it is to deny them. She wanted someone to tell her that she was okay. That it all was fine. She wanted to fake it until she made it, but never learned how to fake it. She didn’t need yearning or even compassion, sometimes, she just wanted to know that she wasn’t doing this whole thing wrong. That was how he made her feel.
Their meeting wasn’t amourous as one of a dream, or as extraordinary as the worlds in book pages. It was what you’d expect out of any meeting, but it felt like so much more.
Every once in awhile, she’d come home holding her books against her chest, and thinking, maybe he won’t hear my heart beat like this? Maybe he won’t see how red I am…
She was always nervous. Adjusting her clothing, not so discreetly checking for body odor, and keeping breath mints on her at all times. But every time, every single time, she forgot about it. She forgot to worry. She was swept away in blissful content, feeling euphoric on the thrill of acceptance. It felt great, like the release of a sigh after a long breath. Her lungs suffused with rapture, so much so that she could close her eyes and smile.
She now sat on her kitchen floor, cold. She didn’t want to move to activate the heat. Anything else seemed too difficult. She couldn’t think of any other term for it. Everything was just difficult. She knew what came next, after the grief. She’d try to convince herself that she didn’t need him, or anyone in fact. He wasn’t special, and if this was the result then it was just meant to happen. No, she would say that he didn’t deserve her, and she will be loved. But when no one else is there, who are you really lying to? The tears surfaced anew.
She is you when your heart is broken. 
She may not have anything, but if she has the strength to put herself through all of that, she’ll have the strength to try again.