He shattered her heart. Shards of it crunched under his boots as he left. She tried to pick it up, piece it back together, but every time she touched it she bled.
There was glass in her skin and splinters of anger in her pain. The floor trembled and pieces of her heart rose with her rage. She sent them to find him, like a plague of angry locusts, a swarm of broken dreams come to claw at his skin.
He bled a little. She bled far more.
And still he did not love her.