Heartbreak is a real thing, she thinks, reaching up to put a palm over her chest, to press hard the heel of her hand against an ache that cannot be soothed. It rises in the back of her throat, a poisoned tightness, a heavy suffocation, a drowning, despairing weight that sinks in and clutches at one’s ribs, crushing them as though they might crack under the pressure, the strain.
She closes her eyes against the pressure of it, swallowing back a rising shriek. There isn’t anyone left to hear her, anyway. There hasn’t been, in a very, very long time.