A/N: No, no, I'm not obsessed with this ship or anything. You're not going to see an influx on my author's page or anything. N o p e.

One, two, she tries for three, but she can't bear to look at him any longer and even if she could, it's doubtful she'd be able to see around the tears. She bites the inside of her cheek and turns away, not knowing where to focus her gaze, so she stares at nothing.

He doesn't fumble with his hands or shift his weight from foot to foot like he used to do. The only sign of his anxiety is in the gentle whisper of his tunic as he reaches up to scratch a non-existent itch behind his ear. Suddenly, her mind flashes to their summer in Omashu; briefly the air smells like cracked clay and juniper.

"Lin?"

She pushes back the memories of the crisp air threading its fingers through her hair as she stood on a balcony at the Western Air Temple, his arms draped loosely about her naked waist, his lips a phantom against her neck.

When he says her name again, it's softer, the way it used to be when he looked at her like she was the world, not the end of it.

Her heart in somewhere in her throat and it pulsates painfully, each pump forcing the words she wants to say further and further down until they're unreachable, consumed by the blackness of her heart – or lack thereof, according to him. She doesn't scramble for the words; she doesn't press her tongue against the back of her teeth and struggle to form them. But her blood doesn't boil in her veins so much as it chills, making lead of her limbs.

There's no need to save this conversation because it's finished, it's done, just like they are.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him reach out to her, but she rolls her shoulder, taking a small step away from him. He doesn't lower his arm as she lifts her head and levels her chin; the muscles in her cheek jump as she clenches her jaw, animating the pink and jagged scars on her face.

"Goodbye," she says, unblinkingly. Even to her own ears, her voice is hollow, vacant. The realization isn't as unsettling as it should be or maybe she's so unbalanced that she can't tell the difference.

The surprise on his face, however, is unsettling. "You're leaving?"

She wants to laugh (or maybe cry), but she forces it down, letting the twisted mirth join the words unsaid. "Did you really expect me to stay?"

They stare at each other for a prolonged moment. His blue eyes are vibrant and concerned; she can't say what hers look like, but she sees herself reflected in his irises and wonders when the light had gone out. That's the difference between them: he doesn't accept defeat where she expects it and overcomes it.

Just like she'll overcome this.

She didn't expect this, though, even with the loose strings of disappointment that composed the line of her life. She wasn't a fool; she knew this wouldn't be perfect or easy or even satisfactory, but she never thought it would smart quite this much.

Her smile is forced as she regards him, taking in the slope of his long nose and the sturdy set of his brow. For a moment, she contemplates cupping his face and tracing the length of his cheekbone with her thumb, but then she remembers her calluses, both real and metaphorical, and how he shied away from them. So she drops her arms to her sides and pushes herself onto her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to the seemingly permanent furrow in his brow. He tenses then relaxes, his eyes drifting shut as her lips linger, and out of habit, moves to grab her waist, but she twists out of his grasp and slips out of the room before he can open his eyes.

It's easier this way.