The Infatuation Is Always There.

The coldest day of November so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Liboton Street. Cars that were usually gleaming stood misty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay wet and dingy. Deprived of their usual rumor mongering and entertaining pursuits, the inhabitants of Liboton Street had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows kept close in the hope of defying the existent breeze. The only person left outdoors is a teenage girl satisfied with mouthfuls of Bread Pan, lying flat on her back in a hammock outside number twenty-five.

Deep in nirvana, she was clinging into some absurd optimism. She was hoping -- no, pleading that a ray of light will appear out of the blue, and shower hope to her falsely bright and cheerful days. She could not think. A tingling sensation was spreading throughout her, paralyzing her arms, legs and brain.

Profound thinking was quite necessary for times like this, but in her case, it wasn't. And with her present condition, concentration was hard to attain, too.

The surrounding silence was broken by odd rustlings and what sounded like cracking of twigs: she thought that they were caused by animals rather than people, yet she kept her fist held tight at the ready. Her insides, already uncomfortable due to the inadequate helping of chlorophyll syrup, tingled with unease.

She had thought that she would feel elated if she managed to confess everything to Charm, but somehow she did not; all she felt was worry about what would happen next. It was as though she had been hurtling toward this point for weeks, months, maybe even years, but now she had come to an abrupt halt, run out of road.

Dawn was coming up: The pure, pitch black vastness of the sky stretched over her, indifferent to her and her suffering. She sat down in the hammock and took a deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to watch the moon rise over the sparkling humid field ought to have been the greatest treasure on earth, yet she could not appreciate it. Her senses had been spiked by the calamity of losing something. She looked out over a tree blanketed in mud, distant fallen leaves chiming through the glittering silence.

The pain brought by constant changes grew worse. Even chocolates were no helping matters. As seconds lingered to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to days, she thought, "Everything is said and done."

She has convinced herself to not moan over things, convinced herself that everything's going to be alright and the pieces shattered are going to be put back where it belonged. But in reality, it wouldn't be that easy.

And as she buries all these thoughts in a silent amnesia, she began to wonder, “Why do all good things come to an end?"