Note: I felt like something was missing in my latest chapter, so here is chapter 5 1/2. I promise the next one will be less complicated and everything will sort itself out. Though it won't be the finale.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.
Cold drops of rain were hitting his heated skin. Such ecstatic feeling.
I know you don't love me. You don't even have to love me. You didn't even love me then. You told me.
An old owl sat on a tree and looked at him reproachfully. A shiver ran down his back.
Why don't you love me? You didn't love me. You loved her, not me. You still love her.
A silver moonlight hit his chest for a second. The darkness came back - both around and inside him.
No wonder you don't love. No one loves me and no one has ever loved me.
His skin cooled down but the burning sting in his head remained. There was only one cure for it and it was out of his reach.
I wish you loved me.
In his life he'd lied a lot. It used to be his job. He'd lived thanks to lies and even now he found them useful. Lying had become his second nature and there were still times when he couldn't tell the difference between something fake or true.
Sometimes he lied because he had to. Sometimes because it was fun. He could easily tell when someone else was lying and knew how to lie without anyone realizing.
He and lies had been good companions for decades. That's why he was sitting once again on his balcony, soaking wet from the rain, conflicted and lost.
Because her words were the absolute truth for her and just terrible lies for him.
It didn't matter that she was drunk. She would never say it out loud while sober. That's why he knew she had really meant every single word.
I love you.
"I love you, too".
Not so long ago, he wasn't sure of his feelings. "I don't know anymore", he'd told her. And it was the truth. At least at the moment. Soon after that weekend, when they both distanced each other, his feelings for her started to settle down in his heart and became clearer.
And then they got that case and he saw her cry her eyes out. He held her and became certain of his love for her. He knew she had some feelings for him, too.
The next evening, she called him. And she told him all those lies, believing they were true. Then he found out she didn't remember a thing and he knew he couldn't tell her, because she would deny everything and build even higher walls around herself.
So he lied. Again.
And he had to keep telling her his lies. Because she had to keep telling him her truth. For her own sake.
He came back inside and changed his clothes. Even while lying down on his matress, the migraine didn't leave him alone. He wished to go see her – his cure – just like he did that memorable Friday night, when he first felt her lips against his. When, for once, he told her the truth.
He had listened to her voicemails hundreds of times. He still heard her weak voice. He still heard her cry.
But for now, he couldn't do anything to make her feel better except pretending not to love her. Because when you love someone, sometimes you need to act like a stranger.