She had always wondered if what she felt for him was love. And if it was, did that matter? Would it be enough?
She thought she might have the answer to those questions now. She loved him, far more than she'd realized. Brennan was not a romantic - she did not relish self-sacrifice for its own sake. She'd felt and observed enough true suffering to know the world was a better place without needless hurt. But she'd crushed both their hearts, and the only reason she could make sense of was that she would endure this pain, the pain of breaking his heart as well as her own, because of the measure of her love for him. Because she was certain this was the best path toward his happiness.
She was only terrified he'd reach the same conclusion she had, and that as a result, he'd remain undeterred. Dreading and hoping for the sound of his knocking on her door, she threw back the first measure of good Scotch she'd poured earlier before she'd even removed her coat.
He couldn't see how much she loved him. He couldn't know that she had dreamed of a life with him. A life shared. She had written it, put it into words and let it take flight through the pads of her fingertips typing out a version of their story where that future was possible. Where she was someone other than the person she had become, and would ever be.
She observed the first tear winding down her face in the reflection of the scotch glass.