You wake up and she's staring at you, one slender leg tucked beneath her body, and your shirt hangs loosely on her frame. She isn't smiling, and you blink up at her hazily, uncomprehending, and as the silence stretches you start to cross from confusion into annoyance. "Morning," you quip, sitting up in bed with a yawn, and reach to tuck a curtain of her long hair behind her ear. She swats your hand away, still unsmiling, and clasps her hands in her lap. "We need to talk," she tells you, and you almost roll your eyes. Really? She can't wait until you've had your coffee, at least? "Alright." You shrug at her and climb out of bed, wrapping a sheet around your waist, and head into the kitchen. You need caffeine, and you need it now.
She follows you, arms crossed over her chest as she scowls. "I'm glad you take this seriously," she begins, and then it's just one long rant about how you have no idea what the fuck you're doing with your life, and she can't live like this anymore, blah blah blah. You don't care. You think you should, because she's dumping you, but you don't. Just like you didn't care when you dropped out of yet another program, or when you didn't get that job two weeks ago, or when your father called to tell you that one of your brothers had just been promoted.
You want to care, but you don't. You wonder what it feels like, to give a fuck, enough to fight for someone or something.
She's still talking, and you cut her off with a sigh. "I get it. Okay? Good luck, I hope we can still be friends, whatever." She stares at you in disbelief before shaking her head, and she tells you she feels sorry for you before turning on heel and storming into the bedroom to pack her things.
Oh well, you think. At least now you'll have the place to yourself again.