Over.

"It's fine." I heard myself say more than once, as if the weak sentiment would gain some sort of momentus strength on it's short journey from my lips to her ears. 

I watch as my words attempt to appear bigger and stronger than they are, falling from my mouth like inflated balloons that only remember and are stuck by the pin of their bare boned emptiness when they've already left the safety of silence. They fall quickly, but they're too feeble to fall hard. There's nothing strong about this. 

Upheaval. 

My head reprimands my heart as if they're unrelated, quietly begging it to simply be a grown ass woman, and refrain from acting as an unruly child. 

I knew this was happening. I knew what it meant.  I knew the consequences. 

"It's fine."

It's not a lie. 

It's just not completely true. 

It's the truth that my adult brain has accepted, which wrecks and wounds the child that is still me. 

"It's fine." 

But what about the really fun and wonderful memories that I still love and hold dear?

"It's fine." 

But what about the grand story we'd always ask you to tell about how you met and fell in love?

"It's fine." 

But what of the implications of a life born out of a love that ends like this?

"It's fine." 

But I'm not ready to celebrate about the future.

It's fine. But it's over.

 ...and somewhere, boxed up and hidden away only seen out of the far corner of my adult eye, there is a hope that will die alone. 

The child within me will mourn, and the adult in me will hold it close and gently hush it in moments where the grief begins to breach the barrier of these walls.

 "It's fine."

It's over. 

It will be fine.