Maybe one day she will tell you about the fissures in her heart where the words she clutched onto seared into her flesh.
Maybe one day she will stop curling her fingers into their sides in an effort to stop needing - to fight against something that was an addiction the moment it touched her lips.
Maybe one day she will stop pretending to be okay and let someone carry the full weight of her burdens - she hopes that you won't fall under the weight.
Maybe, one day, she will tentatively talk about how she wonders what your fingers linked through hers will feel like. Or that she imagines falling asleep in the warmth of your arms.
Maybe one day she will hand you the remnants of their heart, still wrapped in his soul, and let you see how tired she is.
Maybe one day she will explain this fear, a fear of being loved - of being unworthy of love. Maybe she will explain that she clutches their sides so tightly to keep from falling apart and, god, breathing rattles the broken shards inside her chest and it hurts, it hurts.
Maybe, one day.