She held the photograph closer, clutching it to her as her eyes began to blur, colours and lines fading beneath the tears that swelled, and then, finally, released, dropping thickly onto the black and white polaroid.
Her sadness weighed her down constantly. It swept around her, a blanket, or more likely, a restraint.
She could hardly move anymore.
Well, she could move, but the idea of moving too far, of even – god forbid – leaving the house, only served to increase the writhing pains within her stomach. The world would slow to nothing, and it was as if her hearing became pronounced; she could hear her heart beating reluctantly in her chest, her hands clenching, nails digging deeper in her palm, and her breathing ragged, ever so slow.
The days went by, and every moment felt like a dream.
At one point, she thought she heard John knock on the door, most likely with a parcel from some online shopping venture a few weeks prior. And yet, she didn’t move to answer the door. Eventually, after a minute or so, the knocking stopped, and muffled footsteps signalled John’s retreat.