Didn't love you?
Beckett's mouth fell open in shock, first at hearing the word again, and then at the context. She blinked. Her mind whirled with fragments of what he'd said, as she slowly began to see the alternate version of events that he'd created for himself, and had been living with.
Some things are better forgotten. Like the moment she was shot. Or his declaration of love in the moments afterwards.
The lie. For months. Because she couldn't separate the trauma from the confession, and knew that she'd pull him in only to push him away again as she recovered. Or because she wanted to pretend it had never happened.
The holding pattern. The dance. Because she was getting stronger, day by day, and working to not only get past her PTSD but also to be able to live her own life. Or because she didn't want to give him false hope that they'd be together some day.
And I never meant to hurt him. Because she had planned to tell him the truth when she was also able to move forward, and have the kind of relationship she wanted to have. Or because she knows that he loves her… but she doesn't love him.
It all made a kind of twisted sense, and all the ingredients were there. The abrupt shock of separation — when she'd said she needed time. A long period of isolation and enforced introspection, giving him plenty of time to question everything he thought he knew about their relationship — during the three months of silence. Her coming back into his life but for a purpose other than to see him — the day at the bookstore. A complete stall in whatever progress they'd been making — as they circled each other in the months since.
So he'd been hoping, because hope was his essential nature; he believed in finding the happy ending in any situation. But inside, he'd also been doubting, more and more as each week passed, and as the seasons changed, and the leaves coloured and fell, and as winter came. Whatever voice it was that lived in his head, whispering See? every single time that she shut him down when he flirted with her (because it was a reminder of her own guilt), or snapped at him when she was having an anxious day (because she had an appointment with Dr. Burke coming up, or her scar was bothering her, or a loud noise had startled her), or didn't talk to him all weekend (because she needed time to just breathe and feel like a normal human being for a while, away from suspects and motives and death).
A voice in his mind that grew slowly louder, until it couldn't be ignored no matter how much hope he summoned to block it out with. And then louder still, until it surrounded him, accompanying him whenever he came into the precinct in the morning, two coffees in hand and a smile on his face that had started to show the smallest cracks around the edges.
Why hadn't she put the pieces togther? Why hadn't she noticed? Why hadn't she at least suspected?
But she had, of course. She had, and she'd pushed the thoughts away, shielding them with her own hope — that now looked a lot like burying her head in the sand while the man sitting across from her had apparently been breaking apart beneath the surface. Cracks, running and spiralling, widening into chasms that he'd fallen into, tumbling ever downwards, until… this.
Oh god, Castle, no, she thought, feeling the familiar phantom ache in the scar on her chest. Now that it was all laid out so clearly in front of her, she knew that cowardice wasn't her worst crime — and he had always forgiven her for it before. No, her failure here was because of her relentless self-involvement, where everything was made to be about her issues, and her needs, and her instinct to hide, and deflect, and withdraw, and push away. She'd become so used to Castle giving her what she needed — whether it was time, or a nudge in the right direction, or even just the wordless force of his belief in her — that she'd forgotten there was another person to consider.
She had been a victim in life, yes… but she'd also chosen to remain one.
All these thoughts flashed through her mind in moments. And how long had it been since Castle stopped speaking? Five seconds? Maybe as long as ten?
Too long. Stop all of this, her mind said. Stop it now. Stop it while you still can.
It was simple. It could be so simple, if she allowed it to be — and there was no longer any question of that. She had to. Because at some point, probably even before the nightmare at the cemetery and the long summer and everything since, she had quietly realised that a life without Richard Castle wasn't one she could bear to live.
She looked at him, his eyes still closed, his chest moving as he breathed almost mechanically, clearly struggling, and she knew that there was no more time… but that she also didn't need any.
Her heart broke for him, but while her voice was quiet, it was also firm.
"You're wrong," she said.