She told him only that she loved him.
The nuns had given up on trying to separate them shortly after their arrival half a year ago. When they slept separated, they didn't sleep. Éponine wandered around until her exhaustion caught up with her and she slept on some floor or against a wall. Enjolras lay awake, stared at the ceiling and let his mind run free. It never ended well for neither of them.
It was the silent support they gave each other. Silent, because they never talked about the crucial matters. Enjolras never spoke about his guilt and neither did Éponine. She didn't share her thoughts about the day at the barricades, never told him about how she had wanted Marius to die with her.
They didn't share feelings. They didn't share tears or fears, cravings or yearnings. They didn't even share their thoughts about the Bible or God. It would mean to admit that neither believed in a God who willingly let young people die. It would mean to admit that they were far from forgetting the barricade, even after all this time.
They were better, yes. Much better, physically. And on some days even mentally. Whenever she wasn't working, whenever he wasn't reading, they strolled together through the church gardens. He watched her grow and bloom, like a flower in spring. She started to walk a little taller again, talk a little louder. He noticed the smallest of smiles on her lips when she thought he didn't look at her. He noticed a small bounce in her walk from time to time, when the sun was shining and her night had been peaceful.
Yet she never told him anything that came from her heart and neither did he. Sometimes there were slips of the tongue, late at night. Mostly from his side. He would bury his face in her hair, breathing her in, while he whispered how much he missed them. He would talk about Grantaire, this fool who meant so much. About Combeferre, his best friend who always kept him right, who always wanted a peaceful revolution. About Courfeyrac, who never failed to make him smile even when the day seemed dark and dull. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he would talk about Marius. How he had hoped he would forget Cosette and join them at the barricade. During those nights, she held him tighter and whispered sweet nothings to make him forget.
"I love you," her voice would find its way into his heart. It was the only thing she ever said to him as solace. Never talked about the day herself, never spoke about Marius let alone Gavroche. Sometimes he could hear her suppress soft sobs, could feel her trying to gain control about her shaking body.
Yet she never told him anything at all. Not with words. And he never asked for he was sure she would be ready to talk one day. The night was made for secrets and this was theirs.