The empty woman

As he looked into her eyes, he realized she had lost more than he'd thought. Parts of herself had flaked away, she was peeled, stripped down to the core of her being. But even that core was a pale comparison of what she had been when she was at her worst. She had lost her identity, and with it, her vivacity and hunger for life. She stood listlessly by the french windows, one pale hand raised to her face as if to shield herself from seeing something that would burden her. The porcelain skin around her eyes were lined with an intricate web of crows feet, the skin beneath bruised from restless nights. He used to touch that same spot just on her cheekbones, cupping her face to kiss her. He wondered if it was too late to try and bring her back. Even fragments of her would have been better than the empty shell, beautiful as it was.
~Rei Shiori