While she sleeps, he watches her, his dark eyes wet with unshed tears. How could he come here and accuse her? How could he come here and demand things of this woman who had to kill the girl he loved, the girl he knew, the innocence he helped to steal and shatter and toss away like it was nothing? How could he come and blame her for all his hurts?
Sure, she left, but people do that.
Sure, she hurt them… but people do that.
And life goes on, and you learn to deal with it. Why her? Why was she so special?
He can’t quite make heads or tails of it, but he knows that somehow, it’ll all come out in the wash — it’ll all work. It has to.
She fits, just like she always did, with his arms around her and her body so close, small, but strong now.
She fits, even if he was cruel, and she was gone.
They fit, and it’s all right, and maybe they can start over, because he’s been begging to forgive her, and to ask for his own forgiveness, for nearly two decades. The man and woman they were… are gone now — they have to give each other second chances.
He sleeps soundly, maybe just because of exhaustion.
Maybe just because she’s with him.