A Shameful Misrepresentation of Butterfly Syndrome.

Don't get caught up with butterfly syndrome. It's a fatal disease, and very rarely will someone escape it's dreaful claws.

 

It was like fire rushed through their veins, an intense poison burning down the masks they wore to the public. The gentle touches of their comedic lives were gone, leaving the freezing tragedies that lay beneath sprawled out for the world to see.

His hand reached up her face as the tears ran down its pearly white flesh. Grabbing a shimmering copper curl of hair, he wiped her tears.

(You know she loved you.)

She wanted to look at him like she once had, but there was no longer a spark. No light, no flash. His light eyes could never make her knees weak, or butterflies pull on her heart. Instead, the butterflies died, and her knees turned to stone. No, it was gone. No more, no more…

(She knows you love her.)

His arm snaked around to the back of her neck; the hand attached pushing her face so she would look. She didn't want to, he realized. He surely didn't want to, though. Never wanted to realize...

(Make her know you love her. Make her love you.)

The force in his hand was too much to resist to, she couldn’t stand the feel of his skin against hers, nor could she overcome the stare that was burning through her. She turned her head, unwilling, to look him in the eye. Her butterflies wouldn't die again, she promised. Never again.

(She won't love you again.)

His lips traveled only an inch from the delicate skin of her ear, and they whispered in a voice that was meant for her, and only her. "Why won't you love me?" They said. It was a simple white nothing; something lovers do on the silver screen, but it meant so much more than any words could express.

(Accept it, and move on.)

A whimper escaped her lips as the last word was spoken. She shook her head, not willing to answer, because she didn't have one. Her hands shook as they were placed on his chest, and she pushed him away. Not forcefully, but he got her message and moved away. Her feet made no noise as she ran from him, just as she had once before.

(Even if you don't want to.)

It was his turn to cry. The tears kissed his face like snowflakes on eyelashes. He broke down, right then and there, falling onto his knees. She couldn't love him. They were two puzzle pieces that had fit once, but were soon realized to be from two completely different puzzles.

His butterflies died, falling within his chest, still attached to the strings on his heart. As they fell, they made weights inside him.

(Such a shame.)