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Pardonnez mon morbidité, mais c'est un peu comme mourir.

You can see the cards before you. You know how it ends, and yet you fear it.

Let me tell you about the five stages of grief. First, you deny it. Your mind is wrapped in its own fantasies, your thoughts wander in an alternate universe, an existentialist Eden with only you and me, the modern-day Adam and Eve. Your eyelashes are the stitches dotted across your skin. You cannot see. Cupid is blind -- but then again, so is Justice.

Next, you hate it. You feel that burning flare shooting up inside your chest when you hear the news and realize that Eden is burning. You don't live in a garden, my darling -- you're living in hell. You've tricked your poor little mind into thinking you can live in this wisp of a dream, when in reality, this fantasy of yours has been doomed from the start. Because sooner or later, everything ends.

Then, you bargain. You feel the ashes of your dream slipping past your fingertips, like sand in an hourglass, but you plea for time to stop anyway. Please, you clasp your hands together in prayer, let it last just a little longer. Please let me hear that voice, that laughter one more time, just let me see that smile again -- the one that was meant for me and me alone.

But when you realize that there are no gods to save you now, you fall. Food means nothing to you anymore, not when you dine on your own tears and old memories every meal. You become silent at social gatherings, you refuse to see visitors, you disconnect yourself from things of love and affection because you don't want to be reminded of what you cannot have.

Then finally, you accept. Your eyelids flutter shut, you exhale your final breath, and finally, your heart stops beating. But the smile on your face is blissful. Because you're finally free.