[ To have stepped through another person's defenses is to see all the thousand little rejections for what they are. Her hand against his jaw, an easily weathered inconvenience from any other person, or a small question easily brushed off with a lie, becomes intolerable for the weight and meaning it holds, because of the weight and meaning she holds. She takes pleasure in this, this knowing that she is substantial enough in his world that her hands and her words can wound (anything, anything to keep her mind from venturing into questioning why she wasn't enough to change his mind and his past and his future too, this well-worn habit of taking on the impossible). It is a currency of her significance that she can more easily measure, as loathsome as it is, and for this small victory, she can allow herself to lean against him when he holds her.
The silence is a beast that threatens to swallow both of them whole, but she won't let it, no, never: ]
When you say the words like that, it's a promise, don't you know? It means that you will. [ Love me, the words she leaves out because of the gravity of them that she can't yet bear, even if she utters her definition of his actions with such well-worn conviction, as rigid as the fist she clenches against his side. ] I won't suffer the love of a dead man.
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The silence is a beast that threatens to swallow both of them whole, but she won't let it, no, never: ]
When you say the words like that, it's a promise, don't you know? It means that you will. [ Love me, the words she leaves out because of the gravity of them that she can't yet bear, even if she utters her definition of his actions with such well-worn conviction, as rigid as the fist she clenches against his side. ] I won't suffer the love of a dead man.