You know, I know I might have gone and lost my breath,
But I wanna show you how I found my breath to death-
It was buried under all the wind instruments;
hidden in your castanets.

Goddamn, if you ever wanna know how it felt when you left,
If you ever wanna come inside,
Just knock on the spot,
where I finally pressed stop...
playing musical chairs with your exit signs.

His breath was hot, fast and ragged, as though it was trying to catch up with the race his mind was running. His brain was busy calculating the risk, weighing his options, trying to figure.

"I…" he faltered, and begged his brain to pay attention—to convince it that this task at hand was more important. "I care about you, Gillian."

Gillian's breath expelled at once, in a huff that rattled her hair, "You care about me, Cal?" She sighed again, her face clearly weary from this song and dance, "You care about me?" Her voice was flat. "People care about their grandmothers and stuffed bunnies."

Cal remained silent, his brain surprisingly still—not transmitting anything to his mouth.

"You know what, Cal?" Gillian's voice was so soft that Cal found himself leaning slightly forward to hear it. "I'm done. Truly done. I can't do this anymore." She waved her hand back and forth between them, "All this back and forth between us. It's too exhausting, and I'm too tired."

Cal cleared his throat, he opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, to speak her name, but he couldn't.

"We've been doing this for years—it's like goddamn musical chairs. Every time I think you're ready—for anything, hell, even to speak the truth which you have spent your life relentlessly pursuing, by the way, you turn off the music and pull the chair right out from under me. Or worse," she said, a wry smile playing on her face, "You leave." Her shoulders shrugged, and she stepped away from the bookcase.

Cal's voice was gravelly when he finally spoke again, when he finally found the words, "Gillian, I know. I know how frustrated you are—I feel frustrated with myself. That I can't ever get the words out, that I can't ever tell you the truth."

"I've given you every opportunity, Cal."

"I know you have, love, and I swear I'm trying. Can I just have a little more time?"

Gillian smiled, but it was sad—"I'm sorry, Cal, but time is just the one thing that I can't give you any more of." She reached out to smooth his hair back, but stopped herself. "I've already given you too much."

She propelled herself forward, and felt herself walk, somehow placing one foot in front of the other, though her feet felt barely able to support her weight. Only one thought pulsed in her mind over and over again, only one urge surged inside her-to leave. To leave and not look back, to not get dragged back into this cycle again. Her heart, she knew, couldn't handle it anymore.

She wasn't sure how she made it to the door of the office, but she felt the cool handle under her palm, though all of her senses felt fuzzy. Her ears were ringing, and her heart was pounding, and yet she still put one foot in front of the other. With every step she was amazed at herself—and proud. She thought she should be crumbling, or stuck to the ground, rooted in place for the way her heart was breaking—but she was fluid, and the world swirled around her.

Though her head was swimming, in the distance she heard laughter—she heard phones ringing, and the staccato of her heels tattooing a rhythm down the hallway. And somewhere, in all of her clouded senses, she could hear Cal's footsteps behind her, heavy and rapid, getting closer and closer.