"I don't love you... Not anymore."

As I watched her face contort and the tears glisten in the dim lamplight, I couldn't help but wish those words weren't true. But to truly understand how I could break someone's heart so completely, we have to go back to the beginning...

We started all wrong, but at the time it was so right. Floral perfume, porcelain skin, chocolate hair, angel eyes, full lips--it was all I could see. She was all I could see. But the edges of those lips were turned down, those angel eyes had a film of sorrow glossed over them, and that porcelain skin was pallid and colorless. Her expression was desolate. She didn't cope well.

"Hi," she had said, shaking my hand. "Nice to meet you."

But was it nice? Her heartbreaking smile told me otherwise. But still, I said, "Nice to meet you too." And I meant it at the time.

I was drunk and she was sad--it was a perfect match. We talked. We laughed. She cried. I fell.

She was broken and that was clear. Even before she told me that her dad was dead and her mom was depressed, I knew. Even before she told me that she didn't cope well, I knew. I knew she needed me. And I knew I could be her hero.

Broken fragments of sunlight flowed through the shattered glass of her window where she'd punched a hole just after her dad passed. I held her as she cried. She didn't cope well.

A storm followed us overhead, drenching and dragging us in its torrential downpour. But as time swam by, the stirring waves that came with her storm calmed. The snow outside melted and the grass turned green. She healed. She moved on. The edges of those lips turned up, those angel eyes had a film of contentment glossed over them, and that porcelain skin was glowing and healthy. Her expression was joyful. She was coping.

And as she lost her dependency on me, I lost that something I had for her. Things became...different. Her floral perfume became less intoxicating. The way she sipped the juice in her daily dose of canned pineapple became less endearing. The warmth of her arms became less inviting.

That's when I realized that I had fallen in love with being her hero. And when I couldn't be that anymore, what was left?

But still, we had planned a vacation and she was thrilled. I didn't want to be the one to bring back her storm just yet. I would break it to her afterwards, I could keep pretending until then.

But I didn't get the chance.

We sat on the plane, coasting in the air. The fluffy texture of the clouds cradled my heart as I prepared to do the worst. As soon as we were on land, I would do it. I would do it.

Turbulence. No, not a metaphor for our relationship but real turbulence. The plane shook and she screamed. She always hated planes--this was her worst fear. And she didn't cope well.

But she wasn't the only one screaming anymore. I screamed. Everyone screamed. The fluffy texture of the clouds no longer comforted me as they faded into the distance. We were falling. Smoke filled my lungs and each hacking cough felt like my last. And then everything was just a black abyss--a deep chasm that I fell into willingly.

Fifteen survivors.

We both mourned, lamenting the deaths of those around us. But the difference was, I kept my head above water and she drowned. She let it alter her essence completely. She didn't cope well.

She woke up at night, screaming and sweating, clinging on to me like I was her life force. "I saw it again," she'd say. "I saw the bodies. I saw the fire." I cradled her in my arms and realized that I was her hero again. But this time she wasn't getting better. And this time I wasn't in love with it.

She grew detached. She'd tell me all the time, "I can't have a future. I can't be normal anymore." She stopped going out. She jumped whenever I came near. She sat in dark rooms, wallowing in her own depression. She didn't cope well.

One day, she took all of my clothes and her clothes and threw them in a trash can, bathing them in lighter fluid. I stared after her with wide eyes as she screamed at me that she was done, her hands trembling as she held the lighter high.

Her face was damp and her mascara was smeared underneath her eyes. Her breathing was ragged and shallow. As the red and orange flames danced around us, she shrieked, "I see the bodies on the floor." She didn't cope well.

She screamed and kicked when I took her to the hospital for the burns. "She's got Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," the doctor told me. "She needs help. She's not coping well." And seeing her lay in that hospital bed, I believed it. She looked fragile--more broken than the first day we'd met. I feared she would never recover.

But she got better. And she started coping. But even then, I didn't feel that tug anymore. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make myself love her again, if I ever loved her at all. And as much as I didn't want to hurt her, especially right now, I had to.

"I don't love you," I said. "Not anymore."

As I watched her face contort and the tears glisten in the dim lamplight, I couldn't help but wish those words weren't true. All I could think was, she doesn't cope well.

But this time she did. And this time she didn't need a hero.