As if it had colonised every part of her. It reminded her that everyone was better off without her.
You get near a black hole and the gravitational pull drags you into its its bleak, dark reality.
The thought was like a ceaseless mind-cramp, something too uncomfortable to bear yet too strong to avoid.
Nora went through her social media. No messages, no comments, no new followers, no friend requests.
She was antimatter, with added self-pity. She went on Instagram and saw everyone had worked out how to live, except her.
She posted a rambling update on Facebook, which she didn’t even really use any more.
Two hours before she decided to die, she opened a bottle of wine.
Old philosophy textbooks looked down at her, ghost furnishings from her university days, when life still had possibility.
A yucca plant and three tiny, squat potted cacti.
She imagined being a non-sentient life form sitting in a pot all day was probably an easier existence.
She sat down at the little electric piano but played nothing. She thought of sitting by Leo’s side, teaching him Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor.
Happy moments can turn into pain, given time. There was an old musician’s cliché, about how there were no wrong notes on a piano.
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