'Still love her. Still seeing her. Still hate myself'.

Though Carla had really done her best to comfort her after that, Kate couldn't help but think of it over and over today, walking into the church. Each crunch of gravel beneath her feet providing the steady rhythm to the refrain – 'still love her, still seeing her…' True, the 'seeing her' part no longer counted. But she hated herself even more because despite three weeks in Devon, 'getting away from it all', trying to swallow the guilt and smother her feelings because, after all, it was over… To be thinking of this now. At Luke's funeral. It was wrong.

And Kate had been feeling wrong for a while now. Instead of grieving for her friend, this self-indulgence had continued. All she could picture when she thought of Luke was his disappointed face, his accusatory glances, and that shocked expression when he opened the van... Kate wondered, perversely, if he had thought of them as he died? No! …Disgusted with herself, she held Sophie's arm. She felt the younger girl next to her jump softly at Kate's grip (perhaps tighter than she intended), but all the same Sophie turned towards her with a reassuring, unquestioning smile.

Kate smiled back. Her eyes tried to smile, too, but it felt more like they were wincing. Sophie was, undoubtedly, a good person. Not simple, but uncomplicated. Kate felt only gratitude and warmth towards her. True, that fumbled kiss at dawn had left a certain tension, like an unspoken knot in otherwise pleasant and comfortable conversation. Followed by the date. If the kiss had created a knot, then accepting a date had only pulled it tighter. Perhaps too tight. And now, Kate thought, she was the one left wound up and questioning herself again. But whose fault was that really?

Hers. She who had suggested to Sophie that a date would be a good idea. She who left Kate confused and angry, emotions muddled in a swamp of guilt and longing. Her. That maelstrom of danger and vulnerability; sweet kisses and soft touches; dazed eyes and swollen lips; jealous stares and cold remarks. The irresistible maelstrom. Her. All she could think about…

Kate raised her head, unaware that she had even lowered it, and inhaled the January chill.

… Rana.

"You sure you're okay babe?"

Was she not obvious? Rana did not turn in Zeedan's direction to answer. A perfunctory 'yeah', glassy eyes on Luke's coffin, might have persuaded a more perceptive soul that no further interaction was needed. Nonetheless, her husband pulled her in with a strong arm around the shoulder. Once upon a time she might have felt comforted by such a gesture. Now it was difficult to feel anything other than a bitter nonchalance about her current state of affairs. Her eyes glazed over. A pang of remorse for her own peculiar apathy for Luke and Alya… and Zeedan, too. Another pang for the fact that her ennui was being mistaken as her way of grieving for Luke. Worse was the guilt stemming from her contentment to allow such a misconception.

She had wondered, indolently, if her life was now doomed to this never-ending game of charades. Married to a man, in love with a woman; trapped in an infinity loop of interrupted kisses; arguments over trust and commitment; a longing gaze, reconciliation; another neighbour finding out; her husband cheerfully oblivious. It took Kate to pull her, harshly, from this circle of regrets; the Gordian knot finally cut and unravelled. Rana had duly obliged, with a kind encouragement to Sophie - a bitter blessing - before plunging into grey indifference.

And yet, seeing Kate now, after three weeks of endurance, Rana could finally feel again. Even having seen Kate arm in arm with Sophie had been … acceptable. Rana had suggested it, after all. Her own fault. Having glanced over at them regularly today, she felt sure that Kate would not reciprocate the younger girl's feelings. She had even said as much to Sophie the day after Kate left, before she had locked her feelings away. For so long she had been the stoical shoulder to lean on, the sympathetic ear to listen, only occasionally asked if she was 'okay, babe'. Now, seeing Kate walk bravely to the pulpit to deliver her poem – the world became colour again.

It was an inappropriate thought at a funeral. Rana closed her eyes in apology.

But it couldn't be over.

Kate stood at the pulpit. Ready. She knew her poem by heart, but brought it just in case – for comfort and reassurance. The weeks in Devon had done her good, but the guilt and grief left her fragile. She had done well so far to avoid her gaze, and she could just feel the occasional glances coming from – no, her eyes were closed. She could begin now. She looked down at her poem, 'Unspoken', and…

"Taken in the wind, words unspoken, like a wisp' in the air…"

Kate inhaled. Steadily, she raised her head.

Their eyes met.