She lies alone in the bed. The pain creeps in, through the crack in the door, through the cracks in her soul. It overwhelms, breaks, shatters her.

Her lover is dead. And she is empty again.

The happiness of those clandestine meetings, the sweet nothings they shared, the enormity of their love in the hollow, small world. All is dead now.

She slowly gets up from bed and goes off to the washroom. She scrubs her face raw, wanting to erase the pain and hoping happiness will appear beneath it.

Nothing. But the tears have stopped.

She comes out again, takes a deep breath and opens the door.

But then she turns again. From the closet, from beneath a pile of clothes, she takes out a photo. 

A blond, beautiful woman looks back at her, smiling, assuring her. 

She gives a quick kiss to that glossy face returns the photo back to the closet.

And the real her also goes back to the closet.

She will never come out. Not in this lifetime.

Then she walks out of the door with firm steps, to go back to being who she is-a wife, a mother.

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