Go on. You know you're dying to.

So go on and break my heart. I've been counting down the minutes; I've sipped the sweetened seconds from a broken cup until their aftertaste returned bitterness. I've played that music in a low-lit room alone, again and again, waiting for you to listen to a song that's fallen on battered eardrums, harmonies shifting into minor keys. You're not paying the slightest bit of attention.

To me, this will be an epic tragedy, depicted wonderfully, heart-wrenchingly, by an orchestra, a choir and a troupe of starving actors and artists.

To you, it will be a washed out watercolor at your next garage sale, a steal for fifty cents behind that chest of drawers you kept saying you were going to get rid of because the handles were broken.

Don't worry, I won't say anything. I'm too proud to handle this healthily. I'll shift my silence onto your dislike of meaningful conversations. I'll guess it's because of your abusive childhood.

You'll blame it on my assumptions. We can all just accept it and live this way.

But we don't have to.