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She pressed her back against the locked bedroom door, slowly sinking to the ground.
She felt anxious, almost panicked.
It wasn't meant to be like this. It was supposed to be special; it was meant to be magical.

Struggling to her feet, she made her way around the bed to the walk-in closet and with half-hearted effort pushed the door almost closed.
It was dark in here. She curled up on the carpet, her back against the hanging clothes and neatly arranged shoes.
She needed something, something familiar, something warm, just something to make her feel less uncomfortable in her own skin. She groped around in the near-darkness, her eyes adjusting to the low light. They settled on a white shirt - his shirt. She almost let go, the thought of him right now was certainly not something that was comforting to her mind.
She hesitated though, because this was a shirt she had bought for him back in July, back when she knew exactly who he was... or so she had thought, at least.

She undid the buttons of the shirt, as she used to do when he used to wear it. Sliding it off the coat hanger, she pulled it to herself and just sat there, holding it against her cheek.
It didn't smell of him anymore. The fabric felt cold and lifeless between her fingers, having not been worn for months. Almost unconsciously, she started to put it on, pulling her arms through the sleeves. She felt a bit better, strangely enough... almost as if wearing his shirt somehow breathed some life into it, a wearable memento of a better time.

He wasn't the same man he was back then. Back then it had been all flirting and presents, holding hands, kisses and smiles. An involuntary half-smile crept across her lips as stared straight into nothingness, where her mind projected memories like old movies playing before her eyes.
Nowadays it was more demands, more tension, more expectation. He demanded that she clean up his mess. He demanded that she get him a drink. He expected her to do things around him to make his life easier. He expected her to just love him unconditionally...

She did love him. Some days more than others of course, but she did. Today was definitely a day she felt it less - a lot less. Or did she feel it more? No. She'd tried, tried so hard to make herself feel more love for him today than the usual accepted, compulsory amount but it hadn't worked. Today was meant to have been special. Today she had given herself to him completely, instead of on their wedding night. Yet she had felt nothing. She'd felt physical pain and then some semblance of pleasure, but nothing like what she'd expected, what she'd been hoping for, for so long. Inside, emotionally she'd felt... lacking, almost empty.
Is this what making love was meant to be like? This is what people spend money on, what wars are fought over, what people are constantly in pursuit of?

...This is what movies glorified. This is what people around her thought was so amazing, and that's what she had believed. It wasn't special. Not for her and clearly not for him. As soon as they were done he'd gone out to the living room to watch TV, and then fallen asleep. She'd felt so shocked and awkward about the whole thing that she'd barely uttered a word as she slipped her lingerie back on, lingerie that she'd bought and worn specifically for him, for what was meant to have been a magical event that turned out to be just another fucking lie.

She looked up, through the crack in the door that showed the bedroom beyond. She didn't feel as weak now as she did before so she rose to her feet and, creeping slowly and solemnly out to where it had taken place, she began to remake the bed that had been so unceremoniously unmade not long ago.
As she draped the sheets back over the rearranged pillows and tucked them in where they were meant to, she couldn't shake the image of the dishevelled bed from her mind. It was something that would stay with her forever, she was sure. Having completed the task she realised that once again she was cleaning up his mess, just as he expected her to do. Oh, the irony. Was it even irony? It certainly felt like it. Either that or just a sick joke of fate.

Disheartened, she sank to the floor once again at the foot of the bed. How could things that had previously held such promise, such potential for happiness, such hope... come to lie in ruins? Was everything a lie? Was there any real truth in the joy she'd seen as a little girl? Perhaps it was all just a hoax, to keep her striving for something which she could never attain, striving for the illusion of a happy future.

She sat there on the floor, her body sore and her spirit broken, the shirt of a man she once loved draped over her petite form. She felt the tears welling up inside of her, which she welcomed.
She welcomed her misery and let it wash over her, slowly carrying her to the edge...

And then she wept.

Description
She pressed her back against the locked bedroom door, slowly sinking to the ground.
She felt anxious, almost panicked.
It wasn't meant to be like this. It was supposed to be special; it was meant to be magical.

Struggling to her feet, she made her way around the bed to the walk-in closet and with half-hearted effort pushed the door almost closed.
It was dark in here. She curled up on the carpet, her back against the hanging clothes and neatly arranged shoes.
She needed something, something familiar, something warm, just something to make her feel less uncomfortable in her own skin. She groped around in the near-darkness, her eyes adjusting to the low light. They settled on a white shirt - his shirt. She almost let go, the thought of him right now was certainly not something that was comforting to her mind.
She hesitated though, because this was a shirt she had bought for him back in July, back when she knew exactly who he was... or so she had thought, at least.

She undid the buttons of the shirt, as she used to do when he used to wear it. Sliding it off the coat hanger, she pulled it to herself and just sat there, holding it against her cheek.
It didn't smell of him anymore. The fabric felt cold and lifeless between her fingers, having not been worn for months. Almost unconsciously, she started to put it on, pulling her arms through the sleeves. She felt a bit better, strangely enough... almost as if wearing his shirt somehow breathed some life into it, a wearable memento of a better time.

He wasn't the same man he was back then. Back then it had been all flirting and presents, holding hands, kisses and smiles. An involuntary half-smile crept across her lips as stared straight into nothingness, where her mind projected memories like old movies playing before her eyes.
Nowadays it was more demands, more tension, more expectation. He demanded that she clean up his mess. He demanded that she get him a drink. He expected her to do things around him to make his life easier. He expected her to just love him unconditionally...

She did love him. Some days more than others of course, but she did. Today was definitely a day she felt it less - a lot less. Or did she feel it more? No. She'd tried, tried so hard to make herself feel more love for him today than the usual accepted, compulsory amount but it hadn't worked. Today was meant to have been special. Today she had given herself to him completely, instead of on their wedding night. Yet she had felt nothing. She'd felt physical pain and then some semblance of pleasure, but nothing like what she'd expected, what she'd been hoping for, for so long. Inside, emotionally she'd felt... lacking, almost empty.
Is this what making love was meant to be like? This is what people spend money on, what wars are fought over, what people are constantly in pursuit of?

...This is what movies glorified. This is what people around her thought was so amazing, and that's what she had believed. It wasn't special. Not for her and clearly not for him. As soon as they were done he'd gone out to the living room to watch TV, and then fallen asleep. She'd felt so shocked and awkward about the whole thing that she'd barely uttered a word as she slipped her lingerie back on, lingerie that she'd bought and worn specifically for him, for what was meant to have been a magical event that turned out to be just another fucking lie.

She looked up, through the crack in the door that showed the bedroom beyond. She didn't feel as weak now as she did before so she rose to her feet and, creeping slowly and solemnly out to where it had taken place, she began to remake the bed that had been so unceremoniously unmade not long ago.
As she draped the sheets back over the rearranged pillows and tucked them in where they were meant to, she couldn't shake the image of the dishevelled bed from her mind. It was something that would stay with her forever, she was sure. Having completed the task she realised that once again she was cleaning up his mess, just as he expected her to do. Oh, the irony. Was it even irony? It certainly felt like it. Either that or just a sick joke of fate.

Disheartened, she sank to the floor once again at the foot of the bed. How could things that had previously held such promise, such potential for happiness, such hope... come to lie in ruins? Was everything a lie? Was there any real truth in the joy she'd seen as a little girl? Perhaps it was all just a hoax, to keep her striving for something which she could never attain, striving for the illusion of a happy future.

She sat there on the floor, her body sore and her spirit broken, the shirt of a man she once loved draped over her petite form. She felt the tears welling up inside of her, which she welcomed.
She welcomed her misery and let it wash over her, slowly carrying her to the edge...

And then she wept.