Two sheets. On the left, everything the two of them accumulated — hearts scribbled into the dark, a blue coat, yellow bursts, red crowns, an animal somewhere in it — all of it at once, all of it in pieces. There's a frame drawn around it, and the pieces don't care.

The old line says a couple is one soul in two bodies. Say it plainer: one guess about the world, updated together for years. And sometimes it's more than one person breaking up with another — a community breaks up, a country does. Any unit that splits has to draw up its pieces in order to divide them. Draw up: an inventory, and a drawing. When it breaks, the world doesn't go anywhere — it just stops resolving. Nothing gets erased. It just stops adding up.

You're breaking up — it's what we say when the signal fails. Same words, same event. On the right, someone leaving the connection: gone green, slashed with black, the head drawn twice — once as a face, once as the outline a face leaves behind. The frame holds what the couple can't.