She chose to kill love on New Year's day.

She had felt the love leaving her slowly, as through a mortal wound, therefore this choice was merely a formality. The clock had struck twelve and a chord within. She glanced up from the melée, found the hands standing perfectly in time, and noted her decision with simple acceptance. It was like a death passing in the night- a thing unnoticed. She chose to kill love so that it would stop killing her. New Year's was simply the day upon which it occured, for she did not believe in resolutions, like man could change the turns of destiny through the difference in one second. She peered down at her hands, inspecting the wrists, uncertain that the feeling of suicide inside did not have an outward effect. She would live another year alone because it was better this way.
It was better to be destroyed by one's own hands.