Her nails were white, her clothing black. Her heart resembled much of the both of them. Void of life and full with hatred.

“I hate it,” she said. “I hate everything.”

“You don’t hate everything,” I told her. “You hate things right now.”

“When does right now turn into forever, though?”

“It doesn’t,” I smiled. “It just doesn’t.”

“It turns into it in the blink of an eye.” She cried.

She just cried, really. She continually cried. Hardly into my arms, mostly into her own. Her wrists were red with blood and her hair was blonde and matted; her eyes smeared with an array of dark coloring. It’d been like that for days. It’d been like this for days, the same dirty outfit and same crusted blood stains. Her skin was pale, too pale to be healthy.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” I asked her. She didn’t reply, only shook her head. I took her downtown. It was dark out and the street lamps lit her light eyes; all too familiar.

She smiled at dinner, sitting as far as she possibly could inside of the booth, leaning against the window. The waitress was sweet to her, too sweet to mean it. The waitress stared at me half concerned. I couldn’t blame her. The salad I ordered her hadn’t been touched even once, not once.

“Please eat,” I begged her, but she only pushed the lettuce around while her salty tears fell into the bowl.

“It’s too late,” she said to me. “It’s over.”

I slammed my fist into the table. “It’s not too late. It can’t be too late.” My chest burned with fear and anger, regret, and half partially a cold rush of still love.

“I love you,” I told her. My voice rose to a higher pitch, and most of the people in the small diner craned their necks.

“I love you so much,” I roared. “It’s impossible, it’s unbreakable, and this isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

I screamed again: “I love you so much it hurts, don’t you see? I can’t lose you, I can’t even eat without you.” I pushed my plate wildly forward, the barely half-eaten stack of french fries falling upon her lap. She didn’t say anything then; she was expressionless.

I always hated when she did that.

“I’m not perfect, I know. There’s so many things I’ve done wrong as a brother and I–” I choked back tears. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just sorry, and I wish I had noticed and I–”

The waitress sat in the booth. She sat next to her, right next to her.

“Honey,” she said, and my sister eyed her once, still completely expressionless.

“Why are you screaming?” the waitress asked, her hands antsy in her lap.

“It’s her,” I pointed, putting emphasis on the word.

“She’s just impossible. That’s all.”

“Baby,” The waitress said sweetly, too sweet to mean it, “there’s no one sitting next to me.”

“I know,” I answered. “That’s the problem.”