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She says she doesn’t love him. And maybe she doesn’t.
Because that’s not who she is. She’s Gwen. She’s tough, she’s strong, she kicked a murderer in the face for god sakes.
But maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe she won’t let herself care. Because she knows, knows, that he doesn’t, can’t feel the same way. She knows because he always leaves in the morning, if he ever bothers to stay the night. How he won’t look her in the eye when she talks to him, when she tries to connect with him.
Maybe they could have had a chance, had he not started their relationship with lies, with hurt. If he hadn’t made half of the world, or at least Canada, hate her for being a homewrecker, even though he kissed her, and they hadn’t even been dating, but no.
No, they crossed that line years ago.
So she’ll keep saying it’s meaningless, a fling. Even if it’s been going on for well over five years. Even if she hasn’t even looked at another man since it’s started. Even if her apartment is littered with his clothes, with him.
Because when he comes, he never says Gwen.
And it’s easier to lie to herself than to face the truth.