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You gaze at your conjoined hands with a certain type of breathless wonder as she unlocks the door to her apartment in front of you. Her hands are a lot smaller than you remember. Her palm now fits entirely in yours, snug and secure, and the difference causes your heart to pang with longing.
Eight years. That's how long you've been absent from her life for. It's enough time to forget about someone, but how could you ever forget about her?
There are a million things you want to say to her if fate ever allow you the chance to meet again. You want to start by saying that you're sorry. You're sorry for leaving, for lying, for the promises you were never able to keep. There are so many things that you're sorry for, but all that leaves your mouth is I miss you, and she responds in kind, holding you as if she were afraid you would slip away once more. She tugs you close, like back when you were kids, and she rubs her hands along your spine as you try to form the right things to say and come up blank.
The truth of the matter is: you tried so hard to live a life without her that the fact that she's back makes it nearly impossible to remember how those eight years felt. Your life, the one you had been put on pause for so long, starts anew. A new wind breathes into your life, and suddenly you're unsure of what you can do and what you should do.
You know the right thing to do. You've always known. There's still time to turn away before it's too late, and there are others who can take your place that can give her the time that you cannot. You can't be selfish. You can't hurt her—not again, at least. But then she meets your eyes with hers, glossy with tears, and you know that there's a million questions she wants to ask because she's your Watson after all, but all she says is that she misses you too, and you finally, mercifully, your resolve crumbles and you think ah, this is it because really, you waited your whole life for her, and you have a feeling you could wait forever if it came to it.
You should have never returned to her life, but here you are, hand in hand, spare key to her place tucked into your pocket resting over your heart just in case. It's the second key she gives you following the first, which you keep securely wrapped around your neck at all times, and the ring that you made for her and keep for safekeeping feels a bit heavier in your pocket.
The front door swings open softly with a click. When she smiles at you, her lips curving upwards into the fondest of expressions, you calm your racing heart and follow her inside.
You shouldn't be here, but she texted you on Thursday with the simplest of questions—are you free this weekend?—and you answer of course immediately, like it was as easy as breathing, but not before deleting the previous message—for you? I'm free anytime—you were about to send. You don't tell her about the probability that you'll have more work in the upcoming weekend. Instead, you set your phone aside, every single notification muted with the exception of her number, and you manage to finish three day's work in a single evening. There's truly nothing you wouldn't do for her, but here, following after her as she tugs you along, you're never felt so uncertain.
The truth lies sleeping in your throat, hiding at the back of your tongue, but you can't tell her. You don't want to tell her.
She is the loveliest person you ever met, and you have been so foolishly, helplessly, irrevocably in love with her for so many years. However, it hurts all the same, because when people say that this is the best it's gonna get, you're in agreeance with them, because she is the best you could ever possibly hope to have. But you can't. You can't have her, and your I love you is starting to have the same meaning as I'm sorry.
Still, in the empty spaces of her apartment, when you sit curled up next to her, arm slung across her shoulders, your worries quiet down and gradually fall by the wayside. She has her gaze trained on the TV, which plays a crime show that she's trying to figure out who the culprit is before the detective does, and she tells you each and every one of her findings with a certain twinkle in her eyes that you're no longer watching the show with her, because how could you, when she shines as bright as that? Your attention from then on is mostly on her, but occasionally, you sneak glances back at the show to give your input between pauses when the commercial break begins.
Dinner is an equally arduous task. It's takeout—fried chicken, because as much as you insist your cooking skills have greatly improved since you were younger—courtesy of the practice you underwent in the hopes of one day, you'd be able to cook for her—she declines with a laugh and says trust me I've been wanting to try this place with you since they opened and that's the end of it. You sit on the table across from her, and she looks so, so happy, and quietly, you marvel in amazement over how warm her smile makes you feel, like the first days of spring after heavy snow, and you wonder to yourself if that expression on her face is because you're here with her. You think you would like it if it is. And you promptly go red in the face at your own selfish thoughts, and she says your name with a touch of amusement as she reaches her hand over to rest over yours. After the meal, you wash the dishes with her, with soap suds all the way up to your elbows, and you start to think about if these small moments were everyday of your life.
Midnight gradually approaches. She yawns, but you know she tries to hide it behind her palm, so you suggest to retire for the night first as she shoots you a grateful look. You had plenty of sleepovers all the time as kids, but you understand that there's a difference now. Although unspoken, there's an awkwardness that lingers as she smooths over the covers of her duvet and you grab the spare pillow she hands you with trembling fingers. It smells a bit like her shampoo, something floral and sweet, and you quell the butterflies that flutter in your stomach. You shuffle about like you have two left feet, embarrassed that you were wishing, waiting, hoping for something. Then, she asks you if you want to stay. You say yes without even acknowledging the possibility of a second answer.
She slides under the covers first, tugging it up to her chin and breaking into a fit of giggles when she notices how stiffly you've been following her while trying to keep at least an arm's length in case she's uncomfortable. Her hair fans out against her pillow and her eyes sparkle with laughter in the dark, and despite the fatigue, she looks as awake as she ever has been. This is a familiar arrangement, she recalls with an airy chuckle, and in an instant, you remember nights tucked underneath the covers, hushed giggles, and a flashlight as the two of you read stories way into the night while trying not to get caught by her parents for staying up past curfew.
Yeah, it is, you whisper in agreement, breathless, after swallowing your nerves. Though things have changed and continue to change, the one thing that has always stayed the same is her. You don't tell her you love her, but slowly and surely, you scoot closer, tentatively, as if awaiting her permission, which she gives with a soft smile.
Your hand finds the small of her back, arm resting across the dip of her waist, and your other hand reaches up to cup her face in your palm. She closes her eyes with a light hum, leaning into your hand, and her eyelashes tickle your fingers. You wonder what it is exactly that you're doing. Your desire will be both of your undoing, but you think of yourself when you were younger—the little boy wonder, the Detective to her Watson, and her best friend since the beginning—and you've been in love with her since and probably before too. You hope she can't hear how fast your heart is beating in your chest, but it's like an engine jumpstarting, raring to go and take a leap into her arms.
Time continues to tick on by, and you listen to the sound of her breathing as it evens out and eventually she succumbs to sleep, but you're still awake. Rationally, you think: this is when you leave, grab the pillow and take it to the living room couch, but you're so afraid of her living a life without you, and you're also so afraid of living a life without her that you don't know what to do. You know you'll tell her eventually, if she hasn't already figured you out yet. So for tonight, and hopefully for many more nights, you allow yourself to dream about what would happen if you stayed instead of what would happen if you left.