The moment you told me you didn't love me anymore, mimicked the feeling of timelessness and state of awe, similar to when a room of 500 people hold their breath. This feels like the singular second of silence between the end of a symphony's performance and the audience's drumming applause.

Minutes have passed since your words began echoing off the walls signaling our own finale. The sound waves of your voice still hang in the air tormenting me like impending doom. Your deceleration has become a blade awaiting its release onto my neck. I'm anticipating an outburst of acclamation that will free me from my state of apprehension. No conductors have put their batons down; is this really the end? I blindly hope it's the pause between musical movements.

I fear my liberation from this uneasiness may never come. My face is turning blue and my lungs are burning waiting for you to rescue me from this discomfort. I've always had a bad habit of holding my breath when I'm in pain. I think I'm suffocating.