It was just reaching sunset when I opened the door to her room. The shafts of waning sunlight reached through the crooked blinds onto the creme-colored carpet like spilled ink. The walls farthest from the door were cloaked in dark shadows and all the furniture was upturned. The blood-red bed sheets were straddled across the head board and the desk and chair left fallen on their sides. Every surface was streaked in angry, splattered paints of all different colors. The beige walls reflected the paint like mirrors because the colors were so bright. The carpet was stained with sky blues and sunflower yellows and the mirror lay in pieces against the window sill, the shards of glass spread like a grotesque picture across the carpet with a forgotten reflection lost in the chaos.

Streaked across the broken pieces was fierce red paint that stood out like scars on its glassy surface. However, amongst the echoes of the anger that enveloped the room so soon before, in the very center stood a small bed-side table. It was tall and skinny, and bathing in the dimming sunlight beneath the window. On it's chestnut brown surface was a single, folded piece of paper. Both were untouched by the world of colors surrounding me. It's flap lay swaying gently in the slight breeze coming in through the window above it and the ink she signed her name with dried in the glistening sunlight as I reached for it. But I knew, even before I read it, that this was going to be the goodbye I had hoped never to receive from her.