nightingale

She listened to their song.

She memorised the beat and the rhythm of their song, almost as if it was the heart beat of the two of them, conflated and inseparable. The song that she once loved dancing to in the dim light of the living room, was now becoming the source of her pain, leaving her stiff with the sadness.

Replaying the song over and over, she thought the good memories would return, all smiles and spinning together until dizziness pushed them to the ground. But as she presses the replay button, the pain swept over her, pulling her down, again and again in a loop while it was on continuously on play. She was afraid to pause it too, because it would mean she would be alone with the silence, alone with her thoughts. And her thoughts were a scary place.

The canorous voice of the man she loves left a scar on her heart, when at one point it was the very voice that kept her from falling apart. His voice was her favorite song too, you know. Every night, every moment that she missed him, she would listen to his voicemail on a constant repetition. She would listen to the little messages he left her. It was enough to keep her company, enough to be like he was singing her to sleep.

He was her song. He was her nightingale. 
And now she wonders if he still could be, even if he's not beside her anymore. 

It crushes her to think that all of it could come shattering her down all because of a stupid song.