I hate her. I stand here and watch her and I know she still loves him. I can see in her eyes that she's hiding her desolate misery from me and him and the world and herself. I can see she hasn't been sleeping well -haunted by dreams of him, I'm sure- in the way that she carries herself and in the dark circles beneath her weary eyes. The scowl on her face is the incarnation of sinister bitterness and there isn't a doubt in my mind that her slow hallow breathing is her way of keeping calm. The darkness of her cloths is her sign of mourning and grief and represents the relation she feels toward women who have been widowed because the man she fell in love with had left; both physically and mentally, for he will never be the same in her eyes. The memories she has of their time together are a dream to her, for everything he felt was fake and everything he said was a lie. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out for, in her state, she has become easy to read and predict. Even the blind could see her pain and loneliness and the contempt she feels for the world and the scorn to those that know her thoughts and her fear of those who pity her, for they make her wish she could pity herself and her newly developed cynicism she has toward love. Everyone can tell that her heart has turned to stone; that she has grown cold with sorrow.
I look into her eyes and I see this and she stares right out of the mirror back at me and I see that she hates me too.