He'd done it. He had killed her.
Her beauty would no more fool anyone. Her words could no more hurt a soul. Except his.
He knew he would feel guilty. But he tried to deny it.
"Sorry, not sorry" he mumbled to himself.
He sat down, outside the little hut. Inside was a dead body.
He could feel his heartbeat. He could feel the adrenaline, even now, when it was done. He could feel the warmth of his own breath.
He knew what to do.
He stood up and looked at the weapon in his hands. The gun.
His chest rose and fell, in a steady beat.
Soon, that would be over too.
He thought he needed to say goodbye. And so he spoke.
"I'm standing here. Outside this hut. I think it was once a home. Now it's a grave," he started.
"I don't know who I'm talking to. I don't know who is listening. I don't care anymore."
"I've done something terrible. But it was for a good purpose. At least, that's what I tell myself."
"Once, we were a thing. Now she's dead, and soon enough, I'll join her."
"I don't seek forgiveness, as I know I can't be forgiven. I can only be forgotten."
"I don't want to do this. I don't want to think about. I don't want to feel it."
"I don't want to die"
"But I must. I don't know if there is life after death. If there is, I know that I deserve hell. I deserve the pain."
"I want to feel sorry. But Sorry, I'm not Sorry. It had to be done."
He sat the gun to his head.
"Goodbye" he whispered.
Then he pulled the trigger.