[ the rush of her heart is deafening. it's all he hears, secluded in this stairwell: a relentless beat that stutters and stops and starts his own with vengeance and dread and relish. his hand squeezes hers to steady her and the gesture is as involuntarily and it is eye-opening. (he has only ever desired and longed to be this for her: steady and loving and here.)
he has done her wrong in his selfishness to enjoy her; it hits him in a painful blow that takes his breath, just how sincerely this could all mean something to her, as it could easily to him. she's not the caroline he knows, wise to his past ruthlessnesses, in love with a boy he despises and she protects, just as she rightfully protected herself. it chokes him for a moment, all she does not know, and that past is least of those concerns.
there's here and now. there's his future. there's the fresh bruises on his heart; the paralyzing remorse of that, that she does not know. his lips part and he pulls in a shaky breath as he looks down and to the side, searching for words that do not come. it twists him up inside with anguish and uncertainty, how innocent and liable her questions are and how complicated his answers are too.
his fingers tighten around hers again; they shift, his palm touching hers as he climbs the few steps to be beside her, his eyes full. all there is to start with is the truth, no matter how he hesitates to part with it. it would be easier to let it go, he thinks; it would be easier for her if he did. would it be fair? to him, he wonders, or to her? ] No.
no subject
he has done her wrong in his selfishness to enjoy her; it hits him in a painful blow that takes his breath, just how sincerely this could all mean something to her, as it could easily to him. she's not the caroline he knows, wise to his past ruthlessnesses, in love with a boy he despises and she protects, just as she rightfully protected herself. it chokes him for a moment, all she does not know, and that past is least of those concerns.
there's here and now. there's his future. there's the fresh bruises on his heart; the paralyzing remorse of that, that she does not know. his lips part and he pulls in a shaky breath as he looks down and to the side, searching for words that do not come. it twists him up inside with anguish and uncertainty, how innocent and liable her questions are and how complicated his answers are too.
his fingers tighten around hers again; they shift, his palm touching hers as he climbs the few steps to be beside her, his eyes full. all there is to start with is the truth, no matter how he hesitates to part with it. it would be easier to let it go, he thinks; it would be easier for her if he did. would it be fair? to him, he wonders, or to her? ] No.
Not entirely.