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"I don't like sad endings," he said one day, or night, rather, when the stars where just close enough to touch. When slivers of moonlight just barely escaped earnest, glossing fingertips.
She was sitting on the fence of fiction and reality, shadows carving out the contours of her face and shade filling in the empty spaces where parts of her were missing. "I do."
"Why?" He asks.
She smiles. But the thing about her smile was it was all a painting of distinct misery, like it physically hurt to move her face that way. The edges too sharp, the glittering eyes too profound to suggest genuine happiness.
Moonlight catches her countenance, diffuses into a glow that amplifies the way her jaw moves as she says, "Because those are the ones people remember."
