He's looking at her with surprised relief, and then.
Then, something Allison doesn't know how to translate. (That's a lie, such a lie, she doesn't want to know if she's right; she does know, as it lingers on his face, making no effort this time to hide it instantly away.) Why does he have to be so much like himself? Everything so starkly familiar, like a page turned back to glance over. Why can't everything about him be different, if that one fundamental thing was?
It would be fairer than her trading sentence ends with his jagged cut-off, and letting the first one roll off her tongue faster than she should let herself, with a slightly pointed raise of eyebrows: "--that I lied?"
The rest is still rolling around in her head, the other, perhaps, half-dozen things she could extricate the immediate cease-fire of words into being. She doesn't want to think it, question, question why she knows, why she knows that she knows (that she knows him, better than breathing, better than leaving).
Even if she looks a little piqued at the almost backward accusation founded by all that space and all that time (two different lives diverged in the woods, and), she can't stop the dice shaking out in her head still.
I thought maybe--
-- you were avoiding me. -- you didn't want to see me.
-- you haven't forgiven me for what I did.
-- you were only writing back out of guilt or to be polite. -- you're only standing here because you needed me to solve a problem.
no subject
He's looking at her with surprised relief, and then.
Then, something Allison doesn't know how to translate. (That's a lie, such a lie, she doesn't want to know if she's right; she does know, as it lingers on his face, making no effort this time to hide it instantly away.) Why does he have to be so much like himself? Everything so starkly familiar, like a page turned back to glance over. Why can't everything about him be different, if that one fundamental thing was?
It would be fairer than her trading sentence ends with his jagged cut-off, and letting the first one roll off her tongue faster than she should let herself, with a slightly pointed raise of eyebrows: "--that I lied?"
The rest is still rolling around in her head, the other, perhaps, half-dozen things she could extricate the immediate cease-fire of words into being. She doesn't want to think it, question, question why she knows, why she knows that she knows (that she knows him, better than breathing, better than leaving).
Even if she looks a little piqued at the almost backward accusation founded by all that space and all that time (two different lives diverged in the woods, and), she can't stop the dice shaking out in her head still.
I thought maybe--