It was an odd sensation. Watching the man she loved, but didn't really know, fall in love with someone else. The more she watched him with her, this other woman, the more confusing the sensation seemed. Perhaps it was in the way his movements changed when he was around her. The way he seemed to hold himself more confidently. The way he seemed to carry his weight more forward on his toes. Or was it that he held his shoulders more squarely?
Maybe the confusion stemmed from the fact that she should know him. She should be familiar with these movements that seemed so alien. The way he rubbed the back of his head. The way he rubbed his fingers absently along the cool metal of his sword. These movements should have been familiar, as ingrained as her own into her memory. But when she saw him around her, it was as though she was attempting to put together a puzzle with pieces that almost, but not quite, fit together.
But there were moments, when he was not around the other girl, where the puzzle pieces seemed to fit. Where he tilted his head a certain way, or scuffed his foot in the dirt. In those moments, the final picture of the puzzle was almost, but not quite, complete.
And so she resolved to watch, until the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
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It was an odd sensation. Falling in love with a man who she shouldn't, but did, know. The more she watched him, the more confusing the sensation seemed. Perhaps it was the way his movements changed when he did not realize she was near. The way he seemed to curl in on himself. The way his shoulders relaxed. Or was it that he seemed to become more inwardly focused?
Maybe this confusion stemmed from the fact that, when he was near her, his movements seemed so familiar. Each movement of his body was a wonderful, terrible echo of her past. These movements carried such a sense of déjà vu that she wanted to scream. These movements were too familiar. The way he rubbed the back of his head. The way he rubbed his fingers absently along the cool metal of his sword. These movements stabbed at her. They were ingrained into her memory. It was as though he were a picture just out of focus. No matter how much she squinted her eyes, the picture never resolved.
But perhaps it was neither the familiarity of the movements when he was near her or the alienness of the movements when he was not. Perhaps it was the contrast between the two which trapped her. Perhaps it was the sense of something known but not known. Those moments when she expected him to react in a certain way and he did not. In those moments, the final picture seemed even further from completion than ever.
And so she resolved to watch, until the picture became clear.