4: Sometimes
Sometimes she withdraws, retreating into that part of herself that is hers and hers alone. Half-spoken words die on her lips, and she folds herself up with her arms around her knees.
She's sixteen, but on days like this she can act six or sixty. In her protective cocoon of robes and hair, her eyes blink at the brighter green of the grass, studying it as if each blade holds its own story. Even he cannot reach her, but he doesn't mind too much. He understands the need to have something that belongs only to yourself, and he respects that.
Sometimes, in these silent moments, he'll reach over and take her hand. Is it to assure her that he's real? To assure himself that she's real? He's not sure, but he does it anyway. To a passing eye, it's a forward gesture. He knows that. However, he intends nothing forward by it, and she knows better than to take it that way. Perhaps that is all that matters.
Sometimes, when she isn't too far gone, he feels the slight pressure of her fingers in return. But only sometimes. Mostly, her hand simply hangs cool and limp in his, and he can't help but notice how much they've changed. It's been many years since their first meeting; they have both grown from their former selves. Yet, ironically, it feels like they haven't grown at all. It's almost like they're shrinking. Like she is still six and he's only eight.
He often stops to wonder about what goes on in her head when this happens, only to come over and over again to the realization that he doesn't know a lot about her at all. She, on the other hand, seems to know everything about him; it just doesn't seem fair, does it?
Maybe she'll tell him, one day. Definitely not today, and probably not tomorrow. That's all right. One day.
He should consider himself lucky. She doesn't expect anything from him. Her eyes have never soundlessly asked for empty promises, to help her become certain of things he's not certain of himself. Her hand has never deliberately reached for his, desperate to find a sturdy anchor. He doesn't have to be her prince on a white horse, one of those "troublesome creatures" who'll be there for you forever, because they both know that forever is a long, long time. He doesn't have to worry about her in the least. All he has to do is understand that she's chosen to be the one outside looking in, or inside looking out, and she'll never forget that...
"Zhao Yun."
...Except on days like this one. She forgets the person she's chosen to become, and he forgets who he aspires to be.
"What is it?"
"I know you're here. I'm fine. Thanks."
"That's good to know."
And, sometimes, it's all right to forget that.