He doesn't mean to hurt her.
He can see how much his secrets are scaring her, how much she wishes he'd let her in. He knows he can't, though.
She doesn't mean to break his heart.
She's trying to hide it better, trying to make this work even with the secrets and the fear, because she knows he still loves her, and she still loves him and that should be enough.
It's supposed to be enough.
She's always doing things wrong.
No matter what she does she's wrong. Nick never says anything but she knows something is wrong, and no matter what she does she makes it worse.
He's always doing things right.
He wants to do them wrong. He wants to be human again. He knows he can't.
It's not supposed to work.
She's trying too hard.
He watches her fall apart, knows she thinks he's having an affair, knows he can never tell her that he'd never. That he loves her so much. That it's not so much another woman as it is another world.
He's not trying hard enough.
She knows it's an affair. There was perfume on his jacket and he was late home last night. She knows, but he still won't tell her, but he won't work to cover it up either. It leaves her wondering which means less to him; his mistress or his marriage.
It's not supposed to fall apart.
He's almost too late.
He comes home to find the back door jimmied open, presumably with a crowbar, and his wife in the next room with the radio on. He fixes the lock himself and holds her tightly.
She's too early.
She comes home to find a group of men and that nice Mr. Yorke from the other night. The minute she walks in she knows. He has to give her credit for that. She really was rather smart.
It's all gone to hell.
He's collapsing.
Rachel's been dead three weeks and he still can't look at a redhead without feeling sick. Hal keeps telling him he's free now, but he feels more entangled than ever.
She's invisible.
She's been dead three weeks, and she's watched the love of her life fall apart. She knows now. Why he never told her about the other woman. It wasn't because he was ashamed of the affair, it was because she was always dead by the time he came home. He can't see her anymore, but she can see him clearer than ever, and she's not sure why she still loves him, only that she does.
It's been burned to the ground.
He's not quite alone.
He feels this... not quite shiver on the back of his neck, more like... a presence. Like somebody follows him around all day, sits with him at night when he takes out his wedding ring and cries. It makes the talking easier, the lying a bit less a lie, and the pain is quieted. He doesn't want to admit it, but that feeling, the one he won't name, it is what keeps him alive sometimes. He feels safe with that presence. (He feels loved, and not alone.)
She's always with him.
She used to wonder why she stayed. Why she wanted to see what she saw, watch her husband rip girls to shreds. SHe knows now, knows that these quiet moments in the dark where he cries for her and for what he's become, that is why she stays. She knows he cannot see or hear her, but she holds him anyway, whispers reasssurances into his ears, kisses him in futility when the urge surfaces. She feels pain and loathing sometimes, but those quiet nights she feels peaceful. (She feels loved, and not forgotten.)
It will always be there, no matter who attempts to tear it down.
!~*~!
She
He
It.
(Love)