"Still not leaving? Expecting me to return something to you?" He brushed past her, pushing her away from her seat. "Well, sorry, but I don't have the habit of collecting trash! Even if I did, when a person becomes unimportant, their things are just like garbage; once thrown away, there's no reason to take them back and forth anymore!"
She had already turned her back to his desk and heard a "rip" sound, unmistakably the sound of paper being torn apart.
That piece of writing she had saved for nearly twenty years had thus turned into trash...
She heard her own heart tear open with a "rip" as well.
She exhaled once more, "Then goodbye!"
Calling it trash wasn't wrong, when nothing has meaning anymore, all memories become junk. Just saying goodbye like that handwriting, breaking off completely is the best conclusion...
"Goodbye," he replied.
