SHE
is laying in bed with the door locked.
The curtains are drawn and the lights off.
The Notebook is in the DVD player.
An empty tub of ice cream is on the floor
next to dozens of crumpled tissues.
She's got her music blasting,
so loud no one can hear her sobs.
Her fingertips are smudged with black
from wiping away mascara-stained tears.
She's replaying their last conversation,
thinking I'll never get him back.
HE
is sitting on the edge if his bed with the door locked.
The curtains are drawn and the lights off.
Call of Duty is in the xBox.
The controller is laying on the floor,
right beneath the spot where he nearly
punched the wall in his own frustration.
He's got the music blasting so loud,
so nobody can hear his cries.
His hair's a mess from running his hands through it.
And he's replaying their last conversation,
thinking she'll never take me back.
