. . .
When you come to me and tell me that you're sorry... When, not if, because I know you will, as you're the man of honour and you know that what you said was really harsh and it hurt me. When you come to me and tell me that, I won't be able to say to you how bad you made me feel. I won't be able to tell you that it felt like being stabbed right into the heart. Like you delivered the death blow to something really tender that I was keeping deep inside me. Something that was so terrified of the daylight and yet was trembling with a quiet anticipation every time you came near me, yearning for your closeness. Maybe it's better, it couldn't live outside me anyway, being too fragile and too scared of falling apart. But without it I will feel so awfully empty. Like some part of me being gone. And I know it will never be back, because from now everything will be different.
I won't make another move towards you. I don't think I could survive being pushed away once more. Staying out of your personal business leaves us only with work. And that's okay. If that's what you want, I'm perfectly fine with that. Really. I keep repeating that to myself and I'm almost starting to believe it. After all, if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth, right? I so hope for that.
I know that seeing you struggling with yourself will be killing me. I'll be keeping my eye out for you, because that's what friends do. But from the distance. And I'm sure I will notice just every single sign of you acting differently. Ironically, my biggest gift – being incredibly perceptive – will turn into my biggest curse. I'll be seeing it, not being able to do anything about it. It will be tearing me up inside as among all bad feelings in the world hopelessness is the worst. It's even worse than feeling of being unloved.
Something in me is whispering quietly that I should try again. And again. And then maybe again. Until you finally get fed up with my insistence and give up, telling me the truth. But my reason silences this whisper easily, roaring that I'm not the one with who you want to share the truth. I'm not the one you want to confide in. I'm not the one you trust enough. I can't even express how very painful it is – that you just don't want my help. This is your wish. And you can be sure it will be granted.
I can only hope she will be the one to stand by your side in those dark moments. I want to believe she won't agree on being pushed away so easily. Or maybe you won't do that to her, caring about her more than about me. I really hope for that, as I can see it won't be possible for you to deal with it on your own. Whatever it is. I keep repeating to myself I will be happy with it, as what is the most important in all that, is you. At the end, it doesn't really matter who will be the one to take care of you. As far there will be someone to do that.
When you come to me and tell me that you're sorry, I won't be able to tell you all this. And even if I could, there wouldn't be a point of doing it. I know how you feel about me. It isn't even close to how I feel about you. And I know, there's always the one who cares more, or even a lot more, than the other. So this time it's me. The one who cares immensely more. And it's not a pleasant feeling – reaching to you with my hands open, giving you the most precious thing I have and watching you smashing it against the ground the moments later.
So I don't want you to know that. It could only make you feel guilty, as there is nothing you could do about it anyway. And believe me or not, I don't want you to feel this way. So I just keep it to myself, letting this wretched, wounded thing die slowly inside me. At least it won't be scared of coming out into the open anymore.
Thus when you come to me and tell me that you're sorry, in this curt, slightly dry, but honest way of yours, I will tell you the only thing I'm able to. Being even more terse than you and praying that my eyes won't betray me. Because I can control how I'm acting, I can control what I'm saying. The only thing I can't control is how I look at you. My response will be short enough to be delivered under one breath. As I'm afraid that pausing in order to take another one would bring the silence, which would be dangerous – making audible this cry of agony inside me. So you will hear only two sentences. Not more than six words.
''You made your point. Already forgotten.''
. . .
A/N That was for everyone who was not happy with this particular scene in the last (9x06) episode. Especially for UrbanMuse. I hope you enjoyed it and it wasn't terrible from the linguistic point of view. It would be kinda hard to ask you to proof-read it and still be able to keep it as a surprise ;)
Any opinion / thought / suggestion would be treasured, as always.