I ached for her.
Did she ache for me?
Could she easily cope with the fact that we wouldn't be together?
I asked myself these heartbreaking questions as I lay dormant on my late mother's bed.
As always.
This wasn't happening, was it?
"No," I kept telling myself, "she would miss me too much, right?"
Maybe we could meet together in secret, or have more meetings about the war before we declared it?
Maybe?
I trembled.
Only a month of these meetings goes by, and she's already thought of a plan.
I have to stop this, I have to stop her.
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