[ his silence seems to last a lifetime, even moreso because she is certain she had died at least once in that span of time. when he finally speaks, her eyes cannot help but flick towards him, wide-eyed and hopeful, because he does not sound mad, or too terribly sad. just — a bit resigned. which is a different kind of sadness altogether, but.

she bobs her head, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, perhaps too desperate to give him something good in all of this. ]

He does. [ moreso than she personally feels she deserves, but that is also another matter entirely. ]

I wish—

[ she cuts herself off suddenly. i wish things had been different, she almost said. i wish i didn't have to hurt you. i wish i had given my heart more time to grow to want you in return.

such words, no matter how true they are, would only be cruel to say. and she has been unkind enough, she thinks.

again, she looks away. but this time it is mostly to spare him the sight of her tears. ]

You... were one of my first dear friends that I've made here, since falling through that rift, Mr. Keats. I don't know if I can ever properly say how much you mean to me.

[ and how happy she is that he would not leave her over this, either. ]