[ Didn't stick, and a chill that never goes away, so unusual that she assumes anyone who feels it would clock it as exceptional. If he hadn't been self-combusting by degrees, maybe he would have.
He understands, or at least he thinks he does, and the resignation in his eyes deepens to something that borders on exhausted, abstract regret. None of the filters he's put up around this subject are in play, anymore than most of the barriers he puts up around anything else he preferred to keep at arm's length. ]
Okay.
[ He should tell her he's sorry. He thinks he almost could be. ]
I get it. [ And the feeling that he does bleeds through their link: a fragile brush of empathy, not born of general compassion but of specific recognition. ] Don't worry about it.
no subject
He understands, or at least he thinks he does, and the resignation in his eyes deepens to something that borders on exhausted, abstract regret. None of the filters he's put up around this subject are in play, anymore than most of the barriers he puts up around anything else he preferred to keep at arm's length. ]
Okay.
[ He should tell her he's sorry. He thinks he almost could be. ]
I get it. [ And the feeling that he does bleeds through their link: a fragile brush of empathy, not born of general compassion but of specific recognition. ] Don't worry about it.