Lack of Understanding

There is just that one last question left: the elephant in the room. Perhaps it is best left unspoken, but the tension is mounting, and well, let's be honest you were never great in these situations; instead you'd throw out a one liner to avert the pressure from you.

Thinking about it, this is where you went wrong: shying away from your true feelings when things got that little bit too heavy. It was easier that way you suppose, keeping things light, and your emotions below the surface. Sure you were known for having a temper at times, but the emotions that really counted only ever manifested themselves as mere shadows of what they truly were. So you stuck to the gentle flirting, subtly suggestive banter, and the teasing-light push of boundaries; things flowed – maybe not necessarily the way you secretly hoped for, but it worked. She was happy, and you were happy; why mess up the most sincere friendship you have by over-stepping that line. A line, which never really was a line, more of a foggy grey area that wobbled back and forth occasionally; you were quick to not stray into it for too long, the consequences were dubious. Frankly, the risk was not one you were willing to take at the time; you were content with being the best friend.

Looking back, you have been doing that a lot recently you note to yourself, you realise the opportunity had always been there, and the risk wasn't the high stakes gamble you had always pictured in your head. Deep down you know it was mutual, and you cannot help but wonder 'what if?' which leads you back to that final loaded question. You are brought out of your musing by the clink of coffee cup against saucer, and you become very conscious of the fact the atmosphere has not got lighter. Instead of breaking the silence that's fallen, you take the opportunity to observe her; you see no rush in ending this just yet. You move back against the chair, and bring your now disappointingly cool tea to your lips, and take a sip.

Her hand - so small, so delicate, you would never picture her holding a scalpel; using it to make incisions in the dead. No, that hand was for holding, for lacing you fingers through hers, for pressing your lips against in reassurance and affection. You are itching to reach out, and capture it in yours. But you don't. Something tells you, as close as you are – were – it would not be the most appropriate course of action right now.

She is intently staring into the remains of her coffee; you would think with the focus she is channelling into it, the cup held the key to the universe or something daft. A lock of her hair slips from its place tucked behind her ear. There is that urge again, that silly little persistent urge to touch her. If the table was not in the way, acting as a physical barrier, you do not doubt you would have acted by now.

It's funny really; the physical barriers between you are getting smaller: first, there was the bloody ocean, and now just a piece of wood separates you. Actually, it would be funny if it was not so pitiful – your proximity may have increased, but the distance between you still remains the same. You wonder where it began to go wrong; you guess it was even before the airport, way back when you first received that offer, and that look of hurt on her face when she confronted you.

You decide to answer the question before it is posed to you. She has clearly been using the silence to search for a way to ask without sounding desperate, or daft.

'I'm glad I went.'

She lifts her gaze from the table at that statement.

'It was a great opportunity,' you elaborate. 'It wasn't the boring desk job you imagined. I got to interact with a lot more living people – who knew they would be as interesting?' The attempt at humour falls short; instead her face has become stony. Her eyes are searching yours for something. Perhaps, she didn't believe you. Or, you surmise, she didn't want to believe you. You open your mouth with the intent to put her concern to rest, but you close it without uttering a syllable.

Truth be told, if there was any reason for you to regret your decision, to regret taking the job, it would be her, to regret moving to another bloody country, it would be her. But verbalising that sentiment is difficult – you don't know why.

'This past year, it has felt like a lifetime.' You wait a beat. 'I missed you.' There you said it.

'I missed you too,' she replies. Relief floods your system; maybe returning won't be so bad after all; maybe there was some hope for you left.

You share a smile. Then silence descends once again, and it takes away that little bit of hope you were just given. You can no longer sit with her and allow an hour be filled with mindless chatter. The normalcy of such an event has long since passed, and it serves as a reminder that, whilst you have been away, you have both moved on with your lives to an extent.

She glances at her watch. 'I really ought to go. I'm supposed to be back at the lab in five, and you know how Leo gets.' She says apologetically.

'I understand. The dead aren't going to wait forever.'

You push through the coffee shops glass door, and are immediately hit by the bitter coldness of November; of England; of reality. The sting of the wind makes you grasp your coat tighter around you as you step further into the street, and you stuff your hands deep into the slight warmth of your pockets. No longer are you sitting in the warm haze of the café, across from her. Instead you are you are standing in the middle of the bustling, busy London street, standing perfectly still: hands stuffed into your coat, feet planted square on the grey pavement below, and your eyes fixed upon her. The only part of you moving, except for your scarf being pulled at by the bullying wind, was your heart.

Nerves. You were nervous when you picked up the phone and dialled her number, almost a week ago. You were anxious when you sat down – 'Would she turn up?' You didn't think you could blame her if she didn't. And now, well now you are filled with the sound of your heart beating. You can feel your palms begin to perspire, regardless of the cold. You don't know what to do next, how to act: that scares you a little, because when it came to her it used to be so easy.

You take a step towards her before you know what you are doing. You falter, and hesitate. You hadn't thought this far ahead, hell you didn't even think you would be in this position. So, do you shake her hand? Or do you kiss her cheek – the usual custom from old and dear friends.

But before you can throw yourself into more of a muddle, and make an awkward and potentially embarrassing move, she makes hers.

She places a hand on your upper arm, and gives it a gentle squeeze as she leans up and places her lips on your cheek. She lingers a second longer than necessary before returning to her previous pose before you. You barely register her action before it's over, and you miss the contact already.

A smile appears on her lips.

'I'll see you around Harry.'

You hope she was being sincere, but deep down you recognise that tone: the purposefully light and carefree tone that was reserved for acquaintances, and those old school friends you bump into, and have no real interest in keeping up with. It is this moment when you are sure the pounding in your chest stops. A sad smile graces your face.

'Yeah, yeah of course,' you manage to push out. Trying to keep your voice light is not fooling anybody, not even yourself.

She nods, turns away and begins the walk back to her car; back to her job, your old job; back to her life without you. And all you can do is stand there, watching her walk away – not having enough guts to take after her like your body is compelling, and screaming for you to do. You know the better, more healthy alternative is to walk away also, but you cannot bring yourself to do that either. So there you stand, in the same spot as before, as always, doing what you have always done: watching Nikki Alexander and holding back.

You're still there even after her form has slipped into the crowd of Saturday shoppers, and out of your sight. You are only interrupted by the coffee shop server's presence before you.

'Excuse me sir, your friend left her scarf behind.'

'Oh, er, thanks, I'll make sure she gets it.' You take the scarf and clutch it tightly, before stuffing into your coat pocket, and making the trip back to your car.

Thank you for reading.
Inspiration, and title should be credited to The Vaccines and their song of the same name.
Silent Witness belongs to the BBC.