"I told him I needed to think about it."
They both knew what it meant. Eight years – they knew each other well enough to say what needed to be said without really saying it.
They weren't losing each other, not really. But it still hurt more than they expected it to. The door was really closing this time. After this, "If" and "When" could never be brought up again.
She had rambled on, questioning the choice she had made, but not admitted, from every angle, challenging everything like the good astrophysicist she was, checking her answers for the quadrillionth time.
And then she had asked him, without really thinking, "What about you? If things had been different ..."
He gave her that look.
"I wouldn't be here."
We wouldn't be here, she had silently added.
After he had left, she'd sat there, gazing at the box, thinking. In another time, another place, another universe, it would've – could've – been you.
She sighed and opened the box, slipping the ring onto her finger. For the briefest moment, she imagined it had been him who had given it to her. But it hadn't been him. It would never – could never – be him.