She gave him nothing, no hint of whether what he said was too much or too little, too harsh or too coddling. Always, it seemed, people wanted explanations from him, but never were they enough. Not for Kiada. Not for Deimos. Not for Amalia. Still, he tried to do what she had asked of him, tried to talk to her, to put his feelings into words, to lay his heart bare upon the cold floor for her to dissect and find the parts that were salvageable, if any.
And of all he said, it was one thing she latched onto, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry as he swallowed past the lump in his throat as he watched her holding herself as if she would fall apart if she did not... and she had pulled away from him twice now, enough that he was afraid to press further, lest he finally break all that lay between them in his desperation to mend it.
He could have apologized. Could have waved it away as a slip of his tongue, poetic license, a hunch based on implication. Taken it all back onto himself, as she accused him - rightfully - of doing too often, of treating her too much like a child and not like the adult that she was.
"Just now," he said instead, meeting her eyes. He had burned her words into his memory, and they remained there, still smoking-fresh and clear as day. " 'Maybe I just won't come, next time.' After I had already said we would go back together... what am I supposed to think, except that you don't want to go back with me? Not to punish me, I know that, but from your own guilt. I... shouldn't have assumed we would go back together," he admitted, voice low as he looked away. "I just... I shouldn't have assumed." He'd never thought they wouldn't go back together. The curious librarian, the intrepid Loreseeker, the brave baker, and he at her side... of course they'd explore a magical library together.
Unless, of course, they didn't. He wrapped an arm loosely around his knee, not holding himself as she did, tightly and as if he would break, but that was only because he knew she would only feel guiltier if he did, not because he didn't want to.
And of all he said, it was one thing she latched onto, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry as he swallowed past the lump in his throat as he watched her holding herself as if she would fall apart if she did not... and she had pulled away from him twice now, enough that he was afraid to press further, lest he finally break all that lay between them in his desperation to mend it.
He could have apologized. Could have waved it away as a slip of his tongue, poetic license, a hunch based on implication. Taken it all back onto himself, as she accused him - rightfully - of doing too often, of treating her too much like a child and not like the adult that she was.
"Just now," he said instead, meeting her eyes. He had burned her words into his memory, and they remained there, still smoking-fresh and clear as day. " 'Maybe I just won't come, next time.' After I had already said we would go back together... what am I supposed to think, except that you don't want to go back with me? Not to punish me, I know that, but from your own guilt. I... shouldn't have assumed we would go back together," he admitted, voice low as he looked away. "I just... I shouldn't have assumed." He'd never thought they wouldn't go back together. The curious librarian, the intrepid Loreseeker, the brave baker, and he at her side... of course they'd explore a magical library together.
Unless, of course, they didn't. He wrapped an arm loosely around his knee, not holding himself as she did, tightly and as if he would break, but that was only because he knew she would only feel guiltier if he did, not because he didn't want to.
