SC: Sundays

This is one of the way longer SC's. I wasn't even sure whether to include it as one or not at first, but it doesn't really matter much anyway. Hope you like it :)
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Sunday was when it happened.

On Monday, she dragged an old red stool to the base of her bedroom window. She sat down and thought about airplanes. She decided that they took you up into the sky and flew for miles and miles. But they came crashing down just as fast.

On Tuesday, she sat on the stool, looking out the window. She thought about hearts. She wondered how they had such a big capacity for love, while, even more fragile than glass, shattered at the smallest touch.

On Wednesday she sat on the stool, looking out the window. She thought about accidents. She decided that they were unintended, perhaps even unpreventable. But that didn't stop pain from gushing out like waves, swallowing you whole.

On Thursday she sat on the stool, looking out the window. She thought about stars. The Inuit thought of stars as holes in the sky, windows to the world beyond. She wondered if there was a chance he was looking down upon her, even now, while she’d have to search forever to catch a glimpse of him.

On Friday she sat on the stool, looking out the window. She thought about hope. She decided it was worthwhile only if there were things to look forward to. But she had nothing left.

On Saturday, she sat on the stool, looking out the window. She thought about death. She wondered what it felt like to slip away, stay frozen in time, while the rest of the world moved on without you.

When Sunday came around again, she decided she didn’t want to wonder anymore.