En mi corazón, tu vivirás
Desde hoy sera, y para siempre, amor
En mi corazón no importa que dirán
Dentro de mi estarás siempre
- Phil Collins (En mi corazón vivirás/You'll be in my heart)
365 days since the Capitol Attack. 280 since he gave his letter of resignation to Seth. 287 since the day Kirkman was shot. 288 since he and Emily were supposed to go out. It's crazy to think it's been that long, as it feels like much less time has passed.
Aaron has no idea why he still bothers to keep count. There's no point. Maybe it's because there's nothing in this world that he hates more than chances not taken. If he wasn't an opportunist, he'd still be dirt poor and in Texas, doing God knows what. You don't get to places by never taking chances, it's the only way to win in life. Therefore this lost opportunity gnaws at him and haunts him unless he forces it off his mind. Will it ever stop?
Now there are walls between him and Emily, erected by both of them. He doesn't know what they are anymore, aside from colleagues, or if that's it. Casual work friends, perhaps? He knows he's back where he belongs and yet sometimes it doesn't feel like it. Things are not the same, and likely never will be.
He's figured out a few safe topics to discuss with her, aside from work of course, and they don't include their personal lives. That would be too big of a risk to take. He can't let his mask crumble, because he knows hers is unbreakable, at least for him. In many ways he can't quite figure her out, never could. All he's always been able to tell is that there is so much more to her than the face she puts on at work.
"Aaron, did you finish that memo already?" she suddenly asks from his door.
Unprepared for her arrival, his heart skips a beat and he stammers.
"Uhh, yeah. Right here," he answers, handing her the briefing on a potential new radical Islamist group.
"Thanks."
She starts reading the memo right there, lingering in front of his desk, and for merely five seconds he allows himself let go of the mask, to observe her. She doesn't notice (of course she doesn't, because she no longer cares either way, or if she does, she hides it too well). She looks up from the folder and shoots him a tense, business-like smile. That's all he gets these days. He puts his mask back on and mirrors her smile. If only this was some kind of a game, but it's his reality. Jesus, he has to find a way to move on.
"Good work," she murmurs, already heading for the door.
It's not as if he's some sap who believes in fairytale endings or anything like that, but he believes in finishing things, in having closure, in living his life with no regrets. 288 days. How many will it take for him to accept that the empty pages of their book will never be written, that this is a regret that will follow him to his grave? 365? 500? 1,000?