Gravity

When she was younger she would lie often go to the beach with her parents, where they would watch the seagulls together and make up stories to describe the lives of those around her.
There would be two people in the distance, hands clasped tight between them like they feared it would be made illegal once more. Like they would be torn apart. With the help of her parents, she would dictate a life for them.
Perhaps they would walk off the beach to and stroke the waiting heads of their loyal dogs before driving home to an empty apartment with a yellow door.
Or maybe they would never do that, for perhaps they were not a couple but brothers, watching the waves that had once carried the ashes of their parents, and remembering what it had been like to be small and unknowing, with the hands of their parents in theirs rather than their grieving sibling.

It had never mattered whether it was right before. Never even mattered if it was slightly accurate.
All that mattered was that she had been chosen by two wonderful people who said they loved her 'to the moon and back', and said it with enough feeling that she actually believed them. Those people had given her siblings, and stability, and the structure of a family she'd never known before.

Then they'd left her, and it seemed as inevitable as them loving her had been, once. This time the story being told was hers, and it was as inescapable as the regret that choked her when she swallowed those pills.