Prologue
How are you?
Rouge keeps the box closed whilst Shadow tapes it shut. "Is this the last of them?" She already knows.
"Yes."
"Right." Tries to hide her disappointment. "I forgot how few things you have."
"I miss you."
A soft, gently amused sound.
"What's so funny?"
"We saw each other yesterday."
"It's not the same." She huffs. "You know it's not the same."
"It's not that different, is it?" He's smiling, she can hear it.
Still, she doesn't reply immediately, her full mouth thinly drawn, downturned at the corners.
"Rouge?" His smile is dimming, too, sensing her shakily bottled distress.
"I still wait up for you at night, in case I hear you screaming."
He takes his turn to speak and chooses to say nothing, yet suddenly, he sounds so tense.
"It's silly, isn't it? Why do I wait up for you when your room is empty? Well, it's hardly yours anymore, is it? And yet I wait up for you."
Still, he doesn't answer her.
"Shadow," she says, feeling old and tired, "I miss you a whole lot."
She keeps glancing at the unsealed boxes, keeping a record in her head, watching them diminish in number as his things are packed away.
He's taking his time, thinking it might be less painful this way.
A conversation can be a lot like a dance.
"Is there any point in trying to hide the way I feel? Would that be lying?"
"I'm not sure, either way."
"Me neither."
The chair is soft and engulfing.
"I used to be a splendid creature, wasn't I?"
"You're still splendid."
"But it's like you tore me in two. Like I'm somehow less of myself since you left. Like you took part of me with you. My better half."
The clock ticks chances away.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I know, honey. It's your life, so live it well."
"You've got yours, too. Yet you hardly seem alive these days. Our friends… I'm worried deeply about you."
"I keep going about it in circles in my head. I want you back, but I know I can't expect you to stay here, with me. You're fully grown, you've gotten better with people. You've got her. You hardly need my protection."
"Rouge…"
"Living with me might be inappropriate."
"Maybe."
"Still. I want you back."
The fireplace is cold, lifeless and empty.
"Is that selfish and unreasonable?"
"You love me."
"But am I loving you correctly? Is this love, really?"
"These are heavy questions, old friend, and I'm not sure I have the words of my own to answer them."
"And I think that, sometimes, doing the right thing is the difficult thing. Sometimes cowardice tries to prevail. So, tell me." She looks up, finally. "What's the right, brave thing for me to do?"
He takes her hand. "I think you should forgive me and move on with your life."
"I've only realised now – now that you're gone – how embedded into my daily being you really were." She emptily plays with the edge of her dry spoon, gazing into her brimming bowl with a small stomach. "Oh, Shadow, what am I to do without you?"
"I know it's hard."
"It really is."
"But you're easily one of the strongest, toughest people I know." His soup has likely gone cold.
"I still hurt."
"The pain will stop. It has to."
"I hope so."
"And we believe that things will get better, will be made right. Hope and faith hold hands, don't they? How can you have one without the other?"
"I guess you're right."
"Listen. You've managed without me so far. Give it time."
"I'm managing? I feel horrible."
"You'll be okay without me, eventually."
"Stop saying that."
"I… I don't know what else to say. I don't know how to make this easier. But you need to believe me." He carefully continues, "This adjustment…"
"That's what you're calling it?"
"It will take some time. But things will get better."
"It feels so bottomless."
"Be patient. Be strong. Be faithful. Have hope. There is an end to pain. There is peace everlasting. I believe it."
For a little while, they listen to each other breathe, until it becomes too much.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"Your voice is soothing. Like a warm, fuzzy blanket."
"That's cute."
"I mean it. I just really, really miss you. And… I dunno."
"You 'dunno' what?"
"How to handle my feelings. But listening to you is comforting for me."
"I think this is the least I can do for you."
"It feels like a lot. Thank you."
He wants to reach through the phone so he can take her shoulder into his hand and offer her a reassuring squeeze. It hurts, not being able to.
"Please, no more pregnant pauses. Just talk to me."
"I miss you, too," he says, very quietly. "Very much, actually. And it's been difficult without you being in such easy reach, as you used to be."
"I'm always within easy reach, hon."
"It… It's not the same."
He seamlessly transitions into a detailed description of the little, mundane things that comprised his day, along with the prominent things.
She takes in every word.
How are you?
Perhaps they're not really asking it, but just saying it. Not all of them, just certain persons. They might seem to ask, but – not entirely caring for the answer, not really seeking it out – maybe they rather say.
How are you?
A hollow sound, perhaps. But this is not a nice thing to think.
"I'm moving out."
Eyes widening by a fraction, all poise abruptly forgotten, she merely stares.
Guiltily, he lifts his eyes from his coffee and offers her a soft, consolatory smile, giving her time to digest his words.
"Moving out, you say?"
He nods slowly.
"As in," she pauses to dab her lips with her tongue, "you're gonna live someplace else?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
Staring at the page, searching for inspiration.
Music in the background.
Blank.
Easing herself back in her chair, hands flat on the table between them, she looks suddenly very pale. "This is about your lady friend, isn't it?"
"Don't misunderstand. She'd prefer that I live on my own. And I've realised a few things. I'd prefer it, too. But it isn't meant–"
"No, honey, I get what you're saying. It's very reasonable."
"So, you aren't upset by this?"
Rouge doesn't answer because she's unsure of how she could.
A conversation can be a lot like a dance. So as not look like poor dancers amongst themselves, some of them might disguise it in flourish, like a smile or a wink or a nod or a seemingly sincere tone.
How are you?
Could be a lethargic movement, but in easier exchanges, the minimal effort might be enough. They might fulfill their civic duty… An outwardly simple dance of many conflicting, soundless steps, performed under watchful eyes and to the music of wagging tongues. Perhaps to dance is to survive, sometimes.
How are you?
Having taken this step, they might feel a little better afterward. They might walk or hurry offstage with a dry brow and to some applause, or to none. Sometimes – having expended little if any energy, perhaps, in learning something new about someone else and committing such knowledge to memory, or in trying to solve another's problems, or in understanding pain beyond their own – they might feel a little more accomplished.
How are you?
In the anxiety of the dance, you might feel compelled to answer.
I'm fine.
"Years of a shared life."
"We're still sharing this life. We'll continue to share this life."
"It doesn't seem like it'll be the same."
"Got a place in mind?"
"Yes."
"Is it nice?"
"Nice enough. It's simple, but I like it. I've kept within my means."
"What does she think?"
His eyes become softer and faintly wistful, like they always seem to do when she is mentioned, or when he thinks of her, or when she's in his line of sight. "She likes it, too. And I hope you will."
"I might." Rouge passes Shadow another potato. "Are you planning to move in together?"
"No."
"Too sudden? Too forward?"
"We're traditional."
"I like that about you two."
"When are you leaving?" It's an effort, like she has to painfully squeeze the words out.
He reaches upward, threading his brow with an exhausted look on his face.
I'm fine.
You might say. Maybe because it's simply easier, even if you don't really mean it or aren't exactly sure. You might say it, even when you're dancing with yourself.
How am I?
I'm fine.
You could be fine, maybe. You could become fine.
Perhaps, when we aren't dancing alone, it doesn't always matter much. Maybe they're not really asking, because they're not really listening. You might see it in their eyes, in the way they keep their distance.
Maybe they've already turned their attention away from you before you've even gotten the chance to answer, and suddenly you find yourself poised, alone, in this dance.
Might as well dance on your own, maybe.
Maybe I am fine.
But some of them really do mean it. Some of them really do care. I'm not sure that it's best to assume the worst.
In her mind, he says something encouraging, and it starts a flicker, then a spark that leads to something more.
With a deep breath, Amy takes up the pen and begins to write.
A conversation can be a lot like a dance.
Am I fine, Sonic?