PROLOGUE
She is overwhelmed by her own thirst for the regain of her control, so viciously stolen, her newly exposed vulnerability frighteningly unfamiliar and raw. She feels like she has no right to be there, hidden within the dark confines of her living room, praying desperately to a God she isn't quite sure she believes in. She has been hurt by this whole ordeal, that much is certain, but is she the one who has been hurt the most? She's aware of her propensity for twisting the knife to easily.
Her thoughts unintentionally turn to him and her throat tightens uncomfortably and her eyes prickle.
She senses it, too, the impending disaster, the catalyst that promises to send her reeling, to upset her whole world (or what's left of it) all over again.
It is that sixth sense, the one that comes with her job, the one that she fortunately possesses with prominence, which warns her against the unfamiliar feelings permeating her skin, hovering in her mind, and etching into her soul. Never has she felt this dependant, this exposed. To think that she used to pride herself on her independence and her strength!
She's seen things she can't unsee.
She's said things she can't unsay.
She's done things she can't undo.
She is simply too tired to fight him, too tired to run from him anymore.
Part of her must still be in shock, so she is kind of marvelled at her own capability to feel so much.
So she sits, the dingy darkness of her apartment oddly comforting, the wetness on her cheeks beginning to irritate, sting, and she thinks:
"This is what you get for believing him.
This is what you get for taking stupid, stupid risks."
And late that night, when he calls, and she's still sitting there, frozen, she does not answer the phone. When he leaves a message, his voice jots her, and it's warm buzz of electricity and a cold splash of water at the same time.
"Liv…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," his voice is quiet, ashamed. "I need you to talk to me, I…" he clears his throat, "Please, honey…call me."
A/N: To be continued... Yes? No?