Go On
All the things Maria wanted to say to Carol during their brief reunion, and all the reasons why she couldn't.
"Auntie Carol? Mom, it's Auntie Carol! I knew it! Everyone said you were dead, but we knew they were lying."
You have no idea how my heart leapt when I heard Monica say that. You have no idea because it plunged right back down when I saw you, saw the distance in your eyes. When you said, "I'm not the person you think I am," the gulf between us felt wider than it had been during the previous six years. How did I feel further apart from you while I was standing beside you than I did when you were millions of miles away? What changed in you? What changed in me?
"I know this must be hard for you."
I don't remember how I responded when you said that. I know I shared but a small fraction of my pain. I know the things I did not say.
Hard is looking into the eyes of the woman you love, and seeing she no longer loves you back.
Hard is realizing she does not remember ever loving you.
How can you tell someone those things without sounding like a crazy person? I didn't know how to tell you I felt that way. I thought there would be time later. I thought I would find the right words to make you understand, to help us fall back in love.
I thought a lot of things.
"Come look! This is me and you on Halloween…"
You and Monica and Fury were all looking at the photographs. I was looking at you. You saw in those photos what everyone else had always seen: two friends—just friends—celebrating holidays together.
It felt like a knife twisting in my heart. You were always the one soothing my worries—about going out to Pancho's together, about moving in together—by reminding me people will only see what they want to see. "No one will bother us," you told me, time and again, "people will just think we're friends."
I never thought hiding in plain sight would work so well it would even fool you.
"I just think you should consider what kind of example you're setting for your daughter."
I didn't say yes because it was a chance to fly the coolest mission in the history of missions.
I didn't say yes to set a good example for my daughter.
I said yes because of your smile, your chuckle, your thumbs-up. In that moment I felt the distance between us close, just a smidge. I saw of flash of the Carol Danvers I used to know. Smart, funny, a pain in the ass. In that moment I was full of hope. Hope that we would fall back in love. Hope that you would choose to stay. Hope that we could have a lifetime of these moments, just you and me and Lieutenant Trouble.
"I'll help you find a home. Finish what Mar-Vell started."
When I heard you say that, I felt my stomach unknot and my shoulders loosen. I hadn't realized I was so tense until I relaxed. At the time, my relief surprised me. Six years of wanting you back, and I could barely handle you for two days?
But I think I understand now. It's about our love of flying. For you, the best part was always take-off. The thrill of the wheels leaving the tarmac, the exhilaration of embarking on a new mission. To me, the best part was always landing. The solidness of the wheels reconnecting to solid ground, the satisfaction of a successful mission.
The crash, the blast, whatever happened to you six years ago knocked the memories of me, of Monica, of home right out of your head. You would feel trapped here, living an Earth-bound life.
My change was more gradual. During six years of living without you, during four years of living without the Air Force, I've grown used to a life without the thrill of take-off.
We used to balance each other out. Your head in the clouds, mine firmly on my shoulders. Now, though, you can shoot fire from your hands. You whole body glows. You can fly. You belong to the stars.
"It's hard for me to say good-bye, too."
I think you felt the finality of this moment, just as I did. You understood why I had to stay, and I understood why you had to leave. You have a new mission, and you will not stop until the job is done.
Higher, further, faster, baby.
"Go on."
Good-bye forever.