he holds her hands so tight and assures her that distance will not matter. for the eleven hundredth times. his voice, by now, sounds like a fading old sound that has been repeated time and again. the kind of sound that is tired and cannot wait for itself to just dissolve in the free air. the kind of sound that is tasteless having been repeated countless of times. the kind of sound that is weary and stale. deep in the heart she knows she cannot do it. not possibly. not ever. so she releases her hands from him, slowly, only in the steadiest motion.