It's not that I don't love you. It's the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next three years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess. It's not that I don't love you. It's the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn't handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But, her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can't fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. It's not that I don't love you, its that I do.