Elise
Frances watched the ceiling, tears falling freely on the cover. Little droplets that never ceased, soaking the cotton through, sadness tickling away like rain poured from the clouds. A never-ending waterfall that drained, far too slowly, the raging grief that overflowed her broken heart. Her mind conjured Tristan easily, sitting regally beside her, his weight dipping the mattress slightly, his beautiful hand hoovering over her cheekbone, but never touching it. A spirit, so bright that it hurt to watch him, like the angels of those illustrations that radiated too much light. You need to reach out, Frances, said the spirit. Frances shut her eyes so tightly that her muscles screamed, refusing to turn her head. Refusing to see that, beside her, was only an empty spot. That the mattress only
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