He trudges home in the dim, dim light and she's watching for him because that's her routine – she excuses herself from dinner and goes to the porch to wait and watch and think and tap her fingers impatiently. They get a few moments like this every day – in the long, flimsy shadows cast by the soft purple-orange haze of the setting sun. So, today, when she sees him and he's got his sack carelessly thrown over his shoulder, and he's walking like a defeated man and he was so young for that, and she was so young for this, and no one should have to suffer like he does, but she watches him and when she sees him, she runs to him, because if she doesn't run, that's twenty seconds less he can hold her close tonight.
He drops his sack and she knows it was a particularly bad day and she knows not to ask until he explains because he'll tell her when he's ready and no prying or pleading or even crying will bring it any sooner than that. But when he gathers her into his strong arms and begins weeping, she's dumbstruck, because this has never happened before and it's so abnormal and so she just stands there, wrapping her arms around him, doing her best to hold him up. He sinks to the ground anyways, and pulls her down with him and no her new dress is dusty from the road. She realizes she doesn't care – at least, not right now – because the pressing matter is him and why he's crying and most importantly not her dress. He drops his head onto her shoulder, and she can feel his hot tears rolling down her neck and it's almost uncomfortable, but she doesn't say anything because that would be so unforgivably selfish and he just needs her and she doesn't know why. She just cradles his head and doesn't move, except to stroke his hair or shush him as soothingly as she can muster, because all the while a cold, paralyzing fear is clutching at her chest and clogging her throat and making her stomach hurt from the anticipation of it all.
It doesn't take him too long to speak, but to her, it feels like an eternity because she's so clueless and helpless and hopeless and she just wants him to be okay again – not even great, just okay – because seeing him like this is breaking her, and she feels little pieces shattering inside of her with each of his sobs.
"I saw her," he breathes and it's almost like the wind because it's so soft and it tickles her neck and his breath is even hotter than his tears and she's confused for a moment, but then not at all. He's talking about her. His old best friend. Her best friend. The shadow of the girl that once was, and seeing her is always upsetting because of her blank stares at the nothingness of everything around them and her shockingly violent reflexes and the way she pushes everyone away.
And suddenly, she pushes him up and she looks him in the eyes and she shakes her head slowly because while she understands why it's upsetting, and she understands his reaction, she doesn't understand why she's angry and she just wants to escape, but he's grabbing her hand and begging her to not leave him and so she doesn't because she loves him, even if he doesn't love her.