Sometimes, she reads about herself.
Quidditch World pegs her as a mysterious redhead, ever elusive and delightfully shy. Apparently, her face-obscuring hats and laughably-long trench coats are endearing to the public. She flips idly through the magazine, spots herself peering out of a suspicious-looking alleyway, her shopping backs held defensively in front of her, as if she's going to be attacked. She likes Quidditch World because they have rather kindly opinions of her, and they mostly focus on Alder's rags-to-riches success story and less on his decidedly ginger, decidedly camera-shy girlfriend. Witch Weekly dubs her "prudish and cold". She laughs at this, cooped up in Alder's spacious, bright flat, because laughing is better than crying, and there's a lot she can be crying for.
Propping her feet up on the table, her eyes flit to the clock. Three o'clock. If she were in Godric's Hollow, she would be prying open a fresh can of cat chow, and Cinnamon would be weaving between her feet, purring happily. She misses his warm weight on her feet.
She misses a lot of things.
Right on time, though, Alder slips through the door, chasing away her nostalgic thoughts. He pauses in the doorway and smiles like he couldn't be happier to see her curled up on his sofa, looking like she positively belongs there.
She doesn't.
"Hi, Lily," he says, and his voice fills the otherwise silent room.
"Hi, Alder," she breathes, closing the magazine and placing it on the glass coffee table, surveying him through tired green eyes. He takes up the entire doorway, his height and broad chest a far cry from skinny James. His blond hair is cropped short to his head, neat and uniform, and his angular face lights up at the sight of her in a way that makes her stomach twist. Blue eyes crinkle into a smile. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking a seat beside her on the couch. Lily looks at him, eyes somewhat dull, and smiles. She doesn't love him like she loves – loved – James, but she loves him, all the same. When his arms snake around her little frame, her arms remain limp at her sides, but she rests her cheek in the crook of his neck, appreciating the warmth there.
"How was your day?" he asks, and she shakes her head, closing her eyes, trying to exist in the space between his shoulder and his chin, no further.
His smile droops, but he rests his chin on her head, stroking her freckled arm. "Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?"
She shakes her head, leans on him a bit. "I'm a bit tired."
"Alright." There is a long silence, during which she tries to find his heartbeat. Her cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt, and he makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat.
"I love you. You know that, right, Lily?"
"Yes," she answers, closing her eyes and letting her air out in a smooth stream.
Their love is not epic. It is not enviable, or romantic. It is understanding. Alder understands Lily. Lily understands Alder. They have a mutual understanding of each other. Alder understands the vital truths about Lily, which makes their love possible.
He understands why she can't say I love you, too, and why she likes to be alone, mostly, except when she doesn't, and then she wants to be held. He doesn't ask "Why?" when she sometimes leaves and doesn't come back for days. He lets her be on bad days, and doesn't complain because every kiss feels like goodbye forever. He understands, and he accepts. He's very accommodating in that way, and Lily knows this should please her. She knows she should be happy. And yet, her smiles become smaller, her kisses more desperate, her disappearances longer, and she feels like a caged animal, pacing his apartment. Her life is a parade of people she loves, fading, slipping away, leaving her. Petunia, Severus, her parents, one by one, falling into the night. Now James. She lives each day fearing that Alder too shall pass. She used to believe she just put her faith in the wrong people, but with each passing day, Lily realizes that maybe she is the problem.
And that hurts worst of all.