She tries to cry freedom as if it would make it so.
She would never wrap around him in the night again. She would never slide out from under an elbow hooked around her in sleep, or feel him snuggle into her neck, face rough with morning, the tickle making her feel special, warm, loved. She would never crinkle her eyes just that way, lament his humor, hear him whisper “you’re pretty” to end a conversation.
She would never shoot Nerf darts decorated with hearts or wish on another shooting star.
She nods, swipes before the tear breaks her lashes.