Phill Ibsen
4 min readJul 31, 2021


(Broken Together)

Her eyes are fixated on his black polished shoes trying to figure out whose reflection is disjointed, his or hers? If she raises her gaze on him, she will notice the translucency of his eyes. Then she’ll regret why she let it get here in the first place.

A coffee table stands between them defiantly, and on it lies two coffee mugs with ‘I love you’ engraved on them. She is seated on the far edge of the couch, alms folded and legs clasped. His eyes dart across her face, and like a magnetic iron bar, he desperately tries to pick lies that remain on her face, but he knows better, these are the pieces she wouldn’t want him to touch.

In his grip, lies a phone with a pop-up notification of nudes. The subtext reads ‘I miss you, when can I see you?’ A thin sweat trickles on his nape. He readjusts his tie as he grunts.
Meanwhile, there is a kettle steaming on the stove begging to be turned off. Tea is ready. The clock chimes.

“I loved you” he breaks into a heartfelt condolence.
“You didn’t love me enough!!!” The response is laced with evidence, a sharp evil look of ‘usinibebe ufala please’ in her eyes.

He leans forward, places the phone on the table, rolls his sleeves, then takes off his shoes.
“You have broken me.”
“What was I to do?” She gets livid, the game is on. “huh? What was I to do!?”
Their eyes meet in an instant, and there, she sees it. He’s ego is brushed and tickled by thorns.
‘Why is he always the weak one?’ she wonders.

Her timid eyes burn in a ball of a fierce flame. She’s ready to hurl words from her burdened heart.
‘Why am I hurting for this fool?’ he meditates upon himself.

Then in one swift motion he grabs the coffee table, and turns it over. She jerks off sharp impulsive screams. The coffee mug shatters on the floor. He walks to the window. He breathes, he desires to be alone, but cannot risk her gone. She breathes, she yearns to speak her mind. They breathe, they got here on a free ride.

“If I shared you with him don’t you think I had the right to know?”
“It was none of your business.” She says.

Meanwhile, there is a kettle steaming on the stove screaming to be turned off. His phone rings, work is calling.
He switches it off, work isn’t a priority now.

“he was the only good thing we could have had.” she says
“we were not ready to have him”
“I was the one carrying him.”
“I was the one who put him inside of you, I had the right to cut it out.”

The stillness of air hangs around her throat. She hates this about herself. Why does she have to be like him, weak? I shouldn’t have brought him up, he will never understand. She looks to her side, and sees a portrait of them. She picks it up and hurls it towards him. It misses his head by an inch. She races towards him, fingers rolled into a ball of fist.

“Why don’t you understand me?”
She falls into his embrace, and for a moment she wants to feel like she belongs. Just like in the olden days. He grabs her, pulling her close, then he whispers,
“Where did I go wrong?”
She thumps his chest. Her eyes have become windy, a clear glass of water. Why does the devil have to be so lovely? He thinks.

“Why does everything have to be about you?!” She asks.
“What do you want from me?!”
“I want you to undo your mistakes. Undo this hurt you made me go through.”
“Forgive me…” he pleads.

She wants to. He prays she doesn’t. Hair drapes on her face. She flips them back. He pulls her closer.

“kiss me”
She slaps him. He lets her go.
“why don’t you want me!!?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“then you despise me.”
“maybe… I don’t know…”
“You don’t know shit.”
“fuck you.”
“fuck us. Don’t you think I hurt too?”

He reaches for her, just in time when he steps on a broken piece of glass. He lifts his foot and plucks an object. Blood stains the floor.

“Now you are hurting too.”
“I love you”
“no. I was yours to break for someone else to be with.” She walks out banging the door after her.

The kettle is on the stove screaming in a metallic siren. There is a woman who has just walked out. There is a bleeding foot on the floor. He stares at both sides.
“Maybe we are too broken to ever raise a family.” He sheds a tear in the process.

Written by Phill Ibsen, The Master of Descriptions.



Phill Ibsen

The Master of Descriptions, is a Creative Writer. My writings has a tapestry in darkness, which lures readers back to reality. I tell the story as it is.