You push open the door, a careful chime ringing out lowly through the store. And maybe you should be used to this by now, maybe you should find it familiar. But you think you dread the time when you do find yourself used to this routine. And you think you will dread the stage when you find this moment familiar in its action. And so your eyes trail over the flowers that line the store shelves, you trace the reds in their vividness and the blues and the greens in their calming, smooth hues. And you follow the oranges and whites as they lead you further and further into the cool of the quiet building. And you find yourself unable to choose. Unable to really focus on what to pick, on which ones you think she'd like. Which one's you feel would bring a moment of life to her sleeping mind.
And maybe you hate being indecisive. And maybe you hate not knowing.
And so you stand before the rows of flowers, you stand silently, let your eyes move from stem to leaf to petal and you try, if only for a short while, to imagine the way she mights smile, the way her eyes might dance and the way her lip might curve.
"Not sure which ones to get?" you start gently at the intrusion to your thoughts. But maybe you welcome it, if only because it stops you from spirally too far in public. And so you shrug once.
"I don't know," you whisper it quietly to the person besides you, "I've never been good at choosing which to get." And you hear a hum from besides you, and so you turn your head. And your eyes meet a soft face, and an inquisitive look.
"What's the occasion?"
And maybe you should brush the stranger off, say that you want to be alone, that you don't need help. But you know that's a lie. You've missed the company of a quiet embrace and the gentle press of a soothing touch.
You've missed her.
And so you shrug, chew on your cheek for a moment.
"My wife's in hospital," and you say it to the flowers, afraid, uncertain, unwilling to look the stranger in the eye.
"I'm sorry," there's a quiet pause, a gentle ticking of time as you think the stranger thinks of what to say. "What does she like?"
"Everything," and maybe you should think the answer dull, think the answer cliched and stupid. But you think it a truth. If only because Clarke paints with the riches of a red full of life and energy, full of anguish and soothing warmth. And you think she paints with the depths of a blue, just like the hues of her eyes as they shine fiercely in the sun. You think she paints with the strength of the golds and yellows, just like the blonde of her hair and how it could blind you and guide you and dance gentle and quiet in a morning breeze. And maybe you think you consider the options for too long. Maybe you think yourself too colourful in your thoughts, too pathetic and lost in your metaphors. But maybe you think Clarke is everything. Or was. And so you look once more to your side, let your eyes linger for a moment on the woman that stands besides you. "Everything," you repeat, and maybe you think of the tense you should use, think of the times that no longer live in the present, and the memories you hold onto in the past, "she liked everything."
"I like the red ones," she pauses, looks over to the red flowers as they sit quietly, the sun a gentle pink that catches on the petals through the window. "I'm not very good with flowers either," she smiles apologetically, and maybe you let your eye trace the curve of her mouth, maybe you let your gaze trace her hair that curls and sways and the hazel of her eyes that look warmly back at you. "They're warm. They're alive. Sort of calming, you know?" and maybe you do, "And I like the yellow ones," and you follow her eyes as they look upon the soft yellows that sit nearby, "they're not too bright. But they're bright enough to tell you that there's a chance for something more, something new, something different. That they've got a bit more life left to live. That you shouldn't give up yet."
"Yeah," you think it must come out a whisper, come out a strained, broken, tired breath.
And she smiles back, shrugs once, and maybe your eyes follow the rising of her shoulder, the fidgeting of her feet by your side.
And so you look back up to her, let your mind wander for only a moment.
"Thank you…" and you pause, just for a moment, but enough for her to realise you don't know her name.
"Costia," she says.
And so you smile once, but maybe you think your smile doesn't quite meet your eyes, doesn't quite live long enough. And maybe you think she understands. And maybe you know she does from her own smile that lingers for a careful moment.
"Thank you, Costia."
Your mind often wanders far when you sleep. You think it must travel to places far gone and too distant for your waking thoughts to comprehend. If only because you never quite remember. Never can grasp the moments before they slip through your mind. But you think you can feel the constant terrible ache and the constant frightful truths that linger and plague your mind. But you think that you must be cognisant enough to remember the moments when you dream of Clarke. And the memories you recall with Costia. And so you wake. You wake to the gentle breathing next to you and the rapid beating of your heart. And maybe you can excuse the lack of a warm body pressed against yours, can excuse the lack of an arm that often clings to you through the night, if only because it feels a moment warmer, the night less cool, less chilled than the cruel winter nights you have lived.
But you think you have lied to yourself for too long. And you think that the space that lives between you both is more than just a night more warm.
And so you roll onto your side quietly, tuck your hands beneath your head and you let your eyes fall upon Costia as she sleeps. You watch as her breaths come evenly and tired, you watch as her chest rises gently, and you watch as her hair twitches just a bit with each quiet exhale. And maybe if you squint for a moment, maybe if you let the light of an outside world fall across her face, you think you can see the wet that clings against her lashes, that crown her eyes and that wound your mind.
And so your hand reaches out quietly, and you let it sit for an awkward while between you both and for a breath, for a gentle ticking of time you think you should retract it, should pull it back to your side of the bed. But maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you should be brave, be stronger than you think you are. Be less of a coward than you know yourself to be.
But you think you are all those things. And so instead you whisper out to Costia through the darkness that swims between you both.
I'm sorry.
And you think that in another life, in another time. In a moment where Clarke and you never met, where maybe you and Costia met first. In a world less cruel, less unfair that you would have been happy. You think you know so. And you think Costia deserves more.
I'm sorry, Costia.
You think you must lie by her side for a while. You think you lie by her side for long enough that you steal the warmth from the bed. And so you rise slowly, you let the sheets fall from your body and you step out of the room you both share. And as you dress you let the cool of the floor and the careful warmth of the night bring cool breaths to your lungs. And you know you won't find sleep anymore. You know your mind won't let you wander back into a slumber so you walk to the kitchen, the light of the outside world a guide and a hand that pulls you forward.
And as the water boils you peer into it, let it scold your face and burn your mind. And as the warmth of the cup sears your fingers and licks at your palm you embrace it. And as you sit by the window, as the harshness of the floor bites into your body you lean into it, let it ground you and sit comfortably by your side.
You know you must have peered out the window for hours, for lifetimes, for too many nights to count. And you are sure that lives have been lived, thoughts have been born and have died and have existed in your mind. And so you watch the quiet changing of the lights below you. And as the red turns to a piercing green you bring the cup to your lips, you let the scents of a too strong coffee burn away the sleep that still lingers and you let the boil of the liquid tear at your throat. And as the green fades to the amber of a soon to be red you aren't quite sure what you think anymore.
You don't think you've been this nervous in a very long time. You think the frantic beating of your heart unfamiliar in its rhythm. And you know it uncertain, afraid to face what might come next. But maybe that's what you need. So you take one last breath, you hold it for just a bit too long, until it borders on a burn just past comfortable and then you exhale, your feet taking you to the door. And maybe you pause for just a moment, for just long enough to reconsider your actions, to do something different. But you think you've grown used to lying to yourself, so you dismiss the thoughts, square your shoulders and flatten the dress you wear one last time. And then you knock, your knuckles hitting the door with a gentle timidness.
The door opens for you quickly, and maybe you smile at the realisation that she must have been waiting, must have been just as eager as you.
"Hi," you smile just a bit warmer when your eyes take in what stands before you. And you think you like the way the gentle red clings to her body. You think you like the soft brown of her eyes and the curling of her hair.
"Hi," she whispers back. And maybe you get caught up in the moment, maybe you get lost in the thoughts, maybe you can forget for tonight. And so you reach out, take her hand in yours, squeeze her fingers for a moment. And you think yourself happy.
"You look beautiful," and you think you like the way she blushes, you think you like the way her nose scrunches bashfully.
"You do too," and you smirk. And you know yourself happy.
"So," she voices, and you turn to look at her as you walk to your car, "where is it that w're going?"
"A bar," and you laugh at the way the frown spreads across her face, and you watch as Costia looks down at the dress she wears.
"Aren't we overdressed?" and you see her glance over her shoulder, eye the door she just locked.
"No," you squeeze her hand once more, "It's a fancy bar. I promise."
And so she turns back to you, smiles for a moment.
"Ok."
The drive isn't far, just a short while, and perhaps you can be forgiven for the nerves you feel, for the rhythm that beats and that comes rapid and eager, if only because you think Costia must feel the same by the fingers that twitch every so often in your direction. And as you glance to Costia, as you watch her eyes dart from the road to your own eyes, you think you smile, and you know you do when she smiles back. And as you turn your eyes back to the road, your hands resting comfortably on the wheel you feel her lean over quickly, you feel her fingers brush against your knee and you feel the gentle press of lips against your cheek. And maybe you laugh as she pulls away before you can reciprocate.
"What was that for?"
"I just wanted to," she whispers, a smile dancing in her voice.
You think your eyes tired and sore from the time you have spent reading the reports. And you know your mind must be focused elsewhere, must be sifting through problems and actions and words not of your work. And you know Anya must be noticing, must be aware, if only from the way her eyes narrow at you over the desk, the way her finger taps against the file she holds and the way her eyes look from the words before her and then up to you.
"Lunch is soon," she says abruptly, her eyes looking to the clock that sits on your desk.
"How many more do we have to get through?" you ask her, your gaze falling to the reports still in her lap.
"Two," she answers, her thumb carding against the edge of the paper.
"We can make it," and you see her shrug for a moment, see her eyes look back to the report she reads.
"So," Anya begins, "Costia," she pauses for a moment, "she know about Clarke?"
"Yeah," you say, and you think back to when you met her for the first time. "She helped me pick out flowers for her," and you see Anya raise an eyebrow slowly.
"Ah."
And you watch as her thoughts move through her mind for a moment.
"I didn't ask her out while Clarke was still sleeping," and you see Anya's eyes narrow for a moment at your wording. And maybe you think you need to convince Anya of your actions. And maybe you need to keep lying to yourself. "Clarke wanted me to move on."
"I know," she says, "that's not what I'm getting at," and she pauses again, and you think she considers how to word the thoughts, and not if she should or shouldn't say the thoughts she must be having, and you know you enjoy her bluntness, if only because it seems a breath of fresh air to the macabre and somber thoughts that dig into your mind so frequently.
"Does Costia know that you and Clarke are still technically married?" and maybe you grimace. Just for a moment.
"I—" and as you go to respond you think you must realise that perhaps you haven't quite discussed with Costia where things lie. "No," you settle for the truth.
"But she knows that you and Clarke were married?" and you nod your head.
Anya eyes you carefully, "and she knows that Clarke was in a coma for more than a year?" and you nod once more, "and that she bailed on you after she woke up?" and perhaps from the venom that lives in her words, and the sting that you think you see across Anya's face that she also feels slighted by the loss of Clarke.
"Why?" you ask then, unsure of where Anya wishes to take the conversation.
"I just want to know if Costia knows where you're at," and she pins you with a critical look, "it wouldn't be fair to her if she didn't."
And as you think Anya's words over you think them a truth.
"I'll talk to her."
You sit in the cafe not far from where you work, your hand holding a cup that sits just a bit too warm in your grasp and you watch as Anya bites into a sandwich, a soft moan of approval falling from her mouth.
And you think she must see you eyeing her because she shrugs briefly, "I'm hungry," and maybe you smile at her careless motion. "Are you going to finish that?" she asks then, her eyes falling to the half eaten sandwich that lies on your own plate.
"No," you say, already pushing it towards Anya. And as you watch her snatch it up, as you watch her take one more large bite you think you smile for just a moment before a thought takes hold. "You aren't pregnant, are you?" And you laugh for a short second. But as you see the shock that flashes across Anya's face, and as you see her hand freeze half way to her mouth suddenly you think your eyes widen, you think your mouth falls open.
"Anya…" you whisper it out, only to be met by a second of awkward silence.
"Nah," she laughs then, "I'm just fucking with you."
And maybe the relieved exhale that you breathe out is a bit too obvious by the way Anya glares at you.
"I just started this new workout thing," she gestures at herself briefly, "can't eat before lunch time."
"That sounds counterproductive," you say then, but you're merely met by another forceful shrug.
You let a quiet fall between you both then, Anya content to keep eating, yourself happy to sip from the cup you still hold in your hand. But as the moments tick by, as your thoughts are allowed to wander, your mind turns to Costia, turns to the words she had said. And maybe you aren't so sure it was an argument. And you think it wasn't, if only because there were no shouted words, no raging of emotions. But maybe you need to address what lives between you both. And maybe you need to talk to her about Clarke once more. But maybe, this time, perhaps you aren't so sure what will happen.
"So," you look up at Anya as she wipes her mouth, "Costia," she says, leaning back in her seat, "Clarke," she finishes.
And you hum a response, your eyes holding Anya's gaze.
"Is Costia ok with Clarke coming back?"
And you think of the words Costia has said in the past, of understanding, of wanting you to be happy. But you think yourself unsure.
"I don't know," you say, "I don't think so," and you look away for a moment, think of the question she had asked you. "She asked if I still loved her."
"Do you?"
And maybe you're tired of it. Maybe you're tired of the constant pulling of your emotions and the constant ache that lives and bruises your mind.
And do you still love Clarke?
"Yes," you know you do. You think you never stopped.
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know, Anya," and you don't. You think it incredibly unfair. And you think yourself woefully unprepared. "I don't know," you repeat quietly.
"I think you need to talk to her. To tell her how you feel. To tell her what you feel," and Anya leans closer, makes sure you hold her gaze. "You need to tell Costia what you feel for Clarke."
You tread quietly to her bedroom door, careful in your steps lest you break the small silence she has built around herself, and you wince softly, just for a moment, when you knock the cup and the plate you hold in your hands. And as you enter the room, as you see the lump under the covers you let a small smile creep its way across your face. And maybe you feel a touch guilty when you hear a quiet whimper.
"Costia," you whisper it out to her, "are you awake?" and you think you smile for just a moment before worrying your lip when you hear the soft whimper of a reply.
"I got your tea," you sit gently by the bed, "and the chocolates," you finish, placing the cup and the plate down carefully, your hand coming to rest atop her head.
"Thank you," she whispers out.
"Can I do anything else?" you smile again as you see her nose scrunch up briefly.
"No," she rolls into your thigh, her head resting against it, "I hate cramps," she finishes quietly, a hand reaching out to find the chocolates you had brought, and so you bring the plate closer to her.
"Do you want the heat pack?" you prod gently, your fingers carding through her hair. And you smile at the soft hum of an answer. "I'll be right back," and you press your lips to her forehead briefly, "I won't be long," you finish as her fingers reach out for you.
It's late, and you are sure the moon must hang heavy and quiet in the sky, but as your feet take you up the stairs, the quiet thud a rhythm that steadies the thoughts that spin and dance a frantic beat through your mind you think you don't notice the darkness that creeps in from the outside world. And as you near your front door you think you hear the gentle lull of a careful song that plays, and you think a smile lingers on your lips as your key scrapes against the lock.
And you think walking into the apartment is a surreal thing, you think it strange and familiar as you pass Costia's shoes that rest by the door, and you smile just briefly at the way yours find a place by hers. You shrug off your jacket then, let it hang and as you unbutton the first few buttons of your shirt you think you breathe out just a bit more freely, just a bit more calmly, despite the beating of your heart and the words you know you must share with Costia.
You follow the sound of the music, you follow the gentle light that comes from the kitchen and you follow the shadows that fall against the walls and the floor. And you find Costia sitting at the table, her fingers clenched tightly before her, the green mug resting against her hand. And you think you smile for a moment as your eyes see the light from the outside that shines carefully against her, that frames her body a gentle silhouette and that sets her hair ablaze, that warms the colour of her skin and the depths of her eyes.
"Hi," you whisper it out to her.
"Hi," she repeats gently.
"Costia—" but she cuts you off with a raising of her hand, and it's just a careful motion, just a slight quirking of her fingers, but you halt the words you wish to say. If only so that she can voice her thoughts, if only she can speak her mind.
"We've been together for three years, Lexa," and you see the way her lips quiver for a moment and you think you don't like the way your heart thumps and the way the blood beats just a moment louder in your ears. "We have a life."
"Cos—"
"Please, Lexa. Just— Just let me continue," and she stands carefully, and as your eyes take in the clothes she wears you think you feel your heart clench and your eyes sting. And you know she hasn't dressed to relax, hasn't dressed for the night.
"I—" she looks away for a moment, "I thought that if I gave you time, if you had time. If we had time, that we could be happy. And we were, Lexa. We were happy."
"We still are, Costia," and you think your voice comes out a broken, wounded whisper.
"No, Lexa. We aren't. And I understand. I do," she blinks quickly, her head turned from you, a careful shadow falling across her face, "I really, really do," and you take a step forward, your hand reaching out to her, "I'm happy for you," she whispers then. And she takes a steadying breath, pauses for a moment, letting her mind catch up to the raging emotions you are sure must be living within her.
"I think I was afraid, Lexa. Afraid to consider what Clarke meant to you. And maybe it was selfish. Maybe it's still selfish, but I thought that you could learn to live with it. Not move on, and I can accept and I understand that you might never be able to move on. But I wished so, so terribly that you could learn to live with the way things were."
You blink away the tears you are sure must be forming.
Costia takes a step closer then, the space between you just a few small paces, and she smiles just for a moment as her eyes meet yours.
"You still love her."
She lets the words hang in the space between you both as she holds your gaze, her eyes shining quietly in the moonlight, a solitary shadow falling across her face. And you think that in the moments it takes you to consider her words, to consider what you will next say is answer enough for her. And you think as she looks away, as she brushes a trembling finger cross her eyes, that she is a vision of heart ache and of a quiet loss.
"I'm sorry," it comes out a whisper, threadbare and broken as it falls from your lips. And you are. You are so, so very sorry, "I'm—" and you can't bear to look her in the eyes, can't bear to face the pain you've caused her. "I'm so, so sorry," and so you look away, let your eyes stare into the careful burning of a lamp and you imagine it searing the memories from your mind, searing away the years of agony and longing until all that's left for you to sift through are the broken remains of a selfish woman. And you realise that you cry, that your chest hurts cruelly and that your shoulders shake mournfully and that your mind crumbles when you feel her hands rest softly upon your shoulders, when you feel the gentle press of her lips against your forehead and the soft breath that brushes your cheek.
"I'm sorry," you whisper it again and it's soft and a truth and a prose full of a tired ache and so you close your eyes. You hold them shut, as tightly as you possibly can and you think you can feel the years that Costia stayed by your side slip and fall from your grasp.
And so you feel the warmth of her hands caress your cheek, her fingers wiping away the tears that wend a frail path down your face.
"Please, Lexa. Please… Look at me," and you can't bear to hear the pain in her voice, can't bear to cause her to suffer and to hurt, so you open your eyes and you look at her. And when your gaze meets hers you see it full of tears, full of pain, of understanding and acceptance, and so you whisper it once more, if only to ease her suffering.
"I'm sorry."
And her lip trembles, and you know her heart breaks as she whispers kindly back to you.
"I know."
And it ruins you. It breaks you and splinters you and you feel an ache that writhes and burns cruelly in the recesses of your mind.
And maybe, if only for a moment, if only for the lonely passing of a star through the night's sky you think you feel the unkind truth of your emotions. And you think it so, so unfair. And so you choke out one last time.
"I'm so, so sorry, Costia."
And she smiles at you. And you think she understands. And you know she accepts.
"I know, Lexa," her voice is soft, and gentle, and it graces your ears and you think it sorrowful, mournful and full of love, her thumb a constant soothing arc against your cheek.
You watch as her eyes hold your tired gaze, as they let you see the years you shared, and you see the careful smile that lifts the corner of her mouth.
"You deserve happiness, Lexa," it's a quiet pause, a moment for her to gather her thoughts, to hold herself steady, and you watch as she blinks away the tears.
"But I do too. And I can't stay here," it's a sad smile that lives in her eyes, that crinkles them at the corners and that speaks of a time now faded and lost.
"I can't stay here with you. Not when she's here, " and she pauses, wipes away a tear as it falls down her cheek and she takes a shaky breath, her smile watery and bittersweet, of a tender sadness, of a lonely mind, and so she places her hand on your chest, above the beating of your heart, and you think she must feel the tired and quiet pull of its rhythm.
And so she whispers out to you.
"Not when Clarke's still here."
And it hurts. It's muted, and a pained acceptance that you feel fumbling its way through your mind and through your veins.
"I still love you, Costia," you whisper it quietly to her, your eyes refusing to break her gaze. But as her lip trembles and her chin quivers you see the tears that fall and you know she deserves so, so much more.
She smiles then, and it lingers for just a little while across her lips. Yet you think, if only in the dark of your mind, if only by the shadows that fall across her face, from the pale light that sings quietly in her gaze that perhaps the smile doesn't quite touch her eyes anymore.
And so the words she whispers out to you next.
You think them unfair.
But you think them a painful, bittersweet truth.
"Sometimes you can't help but love two people, Lexa," and she pauses, lets a tear fall quietly down her cheek before she whispers out to you, "and sometimes, even if you try so very, very hard, life isn't fair."
And she breathes out for a careful passing of time, the music that moves quietly through the room a silent hymn, a careful prose and a gentle sanctuary for the aching of your heart. And as she ushers away another tear that falls with a tender brush of her thumb, as she presses her lips to your cheek one more time, you lean into it.
Just once more.
"I'm not the one you love the most."