Cleo tears some music paper from the book and scribbles, she writes and rubs and spits, clenches fists and pummels at the page. Sheet after sheet is torn to shreds until it says what she is really trying to say;

It will take a lot for me
to believe you if you ever say you love me
If you even maybe just like me a little bit
I won't trust you for years
- I will doubt it
until you get so tired
of fighting that you leave me.
And I will be proved right.

But being right is lonely
I would rather be wrong wrong wrong
Every day of my life
if it meant you would stay
and never leave.

She writes his name on an envelope, and his address and puts two stamps on just in case and walks to the post box, red as her shame, and her hand hovers at the slot; the slot is a choice, the slot is honesty and weakness. It is freedom.
But bad people don't get choices, bad people like her should not speak, should not cry, their breath should not be heard.
So with a lighter all is turned to ash, the ink and ghosts of music rise in flame, the words evaporate to passing thought.

She turns away, she zips her lips, and throws away the key.