When?
He watches her.
She walks down the street, a tumbler of homemade coffee in her hands. Because he knows it's homemade and not coffee shop coffee.
He watches her.
Even from across the street, he can feel the gentle softness coming from her. That softness that is the strongest, most enduring thing that he's ever known. He feels it as she walks, a hint of a smile on her otherwise heart-colored face. Of course, she'll try to smile even through pain.
He watches her.
Her bag sways on her side, slung over her shoulder as she walks a bit slower than usual to the hospital. She woke up a little earlier today, and of course, he knows that.
He watches her.
There is nothing remarkably unusual about her today. No news, same old, same old. Except for one, but he can't, he just can't think of it yet.
He watches her.
It's a gloomy cloudy day in central London, the air a bit muggy and the cold has a bit of a sting to it, but it's almost as if the sun has decided to take perch from inside her head and shine its light through her face, her eyes. Her tragedy-tested eyes, her invisibility-experienced face.
He watches her.
There is nothing to deduce about her today. No crimes that involved her or anyone she knows, no job-related progression or setbacks, no nothing. But he can't stop watching her.
He watches her.
In hopes that his question would be answered. From here, from afar, from across the street, from inside her heart. He feels, if he hadn't already yet, he could break right there and then.
Because he's pretty sure why, but he isn't sure when.
When did you stop hoping, Molly Hooper? When have you decided to let me go?
Note: Writing angst is both fun and not fun at the same time. Especially if the reader is as masochistic as the author.