Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its characters belong to Square Enix and many others. Sadly, I'm not one of them.

Revised and edited January 7, 2007.
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Metathesiophobia or, Moving Forward
By Lady Calliope

Part Ten: Decidophobia

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Distance is a feeling, not a measurement. It's something perceived in closed ears and dismissive touches, in silences that have faded from comfortable to gaping. He never kissed her lips anymore when they were slick between the sheets, nor did he take the time to lazily explore her body as he once did. His sex had become needy and desperate, the opposite of his vacant eyes.

At first she thought she'd offended him somehow. She attempted to fill his growing restlessness with small gifts scattered throughout the house in places he frequented—a new wrench, his favorite liquor, fancy imported cigarettes. But every surprise only forced him further into himself, farther away from her.

When his late nights and early risings became his habit rather than the odd exception, she knew the breaking point was near. Shera admitted to being many things—overcompensating, a perfectionist, weak—but she was not a fool. She'd noticed the packages and letters going to and coming from Midgar, and she'd regarded their increasing frequency with curious, detached trepidation. After months of witnessing nearly non-stop communication with the city she finally admitted what she'd come to suspect.

He was in love with someone else.

She knew it like she knew the parts of a rocket's engine. The fact that he didn't seem to be aware of it made the pain even sharper. Her life had been pillaged, her most precious possession taken from her under cover of darkness and parcels. These days she couldn't even lay claim to his scorn or his anger—he wandered through the hours with his body on auto-pilot and his mind a hundred miles away. But the time for a decision had come and was nearly gone: he'd forced her into a corner.

"I'm leaving."

He looked up from the piles of gears, engine parts, and tools. She stood in his workshop doorway, the light from the kitchen behind her illuminating her edges like earthshine. Her eyes were dull coins, her arms crossed like shields.

"When're you comin' back?"

A small change, the edge of her lip rose slightly. Her smile scared him. "I don't know." Arms lowered as she turned away from him. "Bye, Cid. See you when I see you."

He didn't expect her to come back—not after the note she'd left him tucked between two apples in the fruit bowl. He didn't find it for a few days: he never ate any of the fruit, but she'd insisted on replenishing it every week in an attempt to offset at least one of his many bad habits. The note wasn't long, but he found himself staring at it for hours. He analyzed every loop and curve of her script. He'd never noticed before, but she had elegant handwriting.

Cid—

You'd have done it to me soon enough.

I wanted to be one step ahead of you, just once.

Move forward. Be well.

—Shera

For the first time since the failed rocket launch it seemed she had found fault with him. She had taken the lead, for once. He realized, much too late, that she'd changed while he had been busy looking everywhere but her. On reflection he decided it was the only good thing he'd done for her in all their years together: she'd learned the danger of putting humans on pedestals.

He was smart, but she was quicker and more practical. She'd seen through him before he even knew to look. She'd told him exactly what they'd both refused to acknowledge until that moment.

Move forward.

He knew it was directed at both of them. But there lay a fork in the road, and she'd left him with one pressing question.

Which way now?