A Common Understanding
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She really didn't understand him, or rather, couldn't understand him. He was the one she had known best, the one she had known the longest, the one whom she adored regardless of his crimes, but she couldn't understand him.
She was questioned again and again by friends why she loved him so, even though she understood nothing about him. She would smile and laugh it off, efficiently dodging the question each time, changing the subject either suddenly or subtly.
She really did not want to understand him, because she was afraid. She was afraid that if they were to come to an understanding, they would figure out they really had nothing in common. She was deathly afraid of this. He was the only one she considered as family and she did not want to lose the only family she had.
She never questioned him; instead she accepted his quirks. His constant squinting and obviously false smile she never inquired about. His oddly colored hair and pale complexion never once crossed her mind as an oddity. There was one thing though, that try as she might, she could not accept: his inability to stay in one place.
This made her fear understanding him even more. She was afraid to discover he left because he could not stand the sight of her, her dependency upon him. She did not want to know it if he hated her. She would much rather believe that he loved and needed her just as she loved and needed him.
When he left for the last time, she could no more understand him than she could before. His apology, his words meant nothing to her ears. They were nonsense, gibberish; they didn't even register in her mind. Rather, it was his action. Once again he was abandoning her. Why, she did not know. She did not want to know.
He could never understand her. She was so loyal to her boy captain and adored him so. She was attached to her lifestyle; she did not mind the boring everyday routines, though she complained about them. He could not comprehend the way she thought: he's my captain, so I have to be loyal to him. She's my friend, I can't betray her. I can't do that, it's not right.
He was so utterly different from her. He could not bind himself to one place. All his loyalties were forced and half-hearted, his friends false.
He spoke to her about neither her nor him, for fear that she would come to understand him. He didn't want her to understand him, for she might discover him for what he truly was. He didn't want her knowing him as an immoral liar and traitor, but as the boy who had saved her all those years ago. He needed her to love and need him.
When he left her, he could not understand why she hadn't held on longer, harder. That's what he would have done, had their roles been reversed, held onto her like he was going to shatter if he released his hold. His words meant nothing to him. His lips had moved on their own, the words he had spoken did not even register; he didn't know why he had said them. He wasn't sorry for anything. She was the one at fault; she let him go. He was the one who was wronged.
Their relationship was not a romantic one, not even coming close to breaching the first signs of romance. It wasn't even the kind siblings shared with each other. Instead it was more of a tolerance, evidence of the rule opposites attract. It was the kind based on a common understanding, which an outsider might view as ironic, but made perfect sense to them. They each understood that they did not want to understand each other.