An unexpected twist in this current status: my heart hurts. I was the one who ended it, the one who played the "heart breaker" and yet here I am: sitting on the floor, staring at the wall, feeling the strangest pain. I would call it a dull throb, but the passion behind it seems wrong. As I stare at his shirt hanging on the banister, preparing to be returned to its broken owner, the feeling swells. Not heart burn or an agonizing stab, just a minuscule voice behind my heart whispering the tantalizing, crushing sorrow I gave another human. The worst present anyone can receive. So personal that the sadness takes over the giver and the endearing thoughts of the future deteriorate at the sight of guilt, the ugly monster casting your freedom into a prison with the death sentence stamped on like a label. Guilt has me crying over a love I didn't love and an action I don't regret. I'm a slave to him. He is the one that hurts my heart.