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It’s bitterly poetic to lose her here.
This place feels like a piece of my heart, your own voice echoes back at you.
Paddy was the first person you showed this place to, nervous laughter, careful distance - you hadn’t been sure back then. It’d taken time for you to get used to sharing space with another person, to spend time in her company without the urge to shy away, to reach for her hand whenever you wanted some sort of contact.
Now -
It’s instinct to hug her, when you get down the water stream, but you stop yourself. Your shoulder still brushes hers as you go looking for a place for the two of you to talk, your teammate trailing behind you - it’s a closeness you don’t lose that easy, despite how terrified you are right now.
Issue 4: i’m really really scared of what happens next
Quite a few ways that sign could be read.
You end up at the bench. Sit at the end, your knees drawn up to your chest. Your teammate looks just as wary as you as she sits opposite.
And you talk. It’s an echo, a continuation, a response.
Isn’t this a time for echoes?
Earlier this week, you’d asked for a team meeting - been a while since we’ve spoken, properly - suggested the place where you’d become teamed, a goat pen in the centre of an ice-shattered mountain range. You’d talked, and left confused and scared and trying to figure things out - a dark reflection of the first time, when you’d left with a giddy smile and so much love in your heart.
Now, here - from the first time you’d bared your heart to them, to what you’re rapidly realising is the last.
“You asked about dealbreakers,” Paddy says. “I think I’ve put it into words.”
They’ve moved away from the bench, pacing back and forth in front of the tree - at one point, they’d almost tripped over a root, and it had been instinct to steady them, oh-so-aware of your hands on their arm and shoulder - you’d lingered, a moment, before stepping back, and you’re pretty sure they noticed.
But it doesn’t change anything.
“I am trying but I can’t - promise,” you say, staring at the grass. “All I can do is try my best. I can promise I will try - but I can’t promise I’ll succeed. And I don’t know if that’s enough for you.”
“It’s true you can’t promise that,” Paddy says slowly. “And I don’t want to be yet another person who leaves you.” Oh. “But I can’t, as a teammate specifically, sit by and watch you self-destruct.”
It’s an end, but you can’t help yourself -
It’s like you can’t move, every mechanic in your body stuttering and still, but you manage a jarring step forward. “You do know you can tell me -” you say, beg. “If I’m being too self-destructive - you can say! You -”
Paddy flinches.
You stop. Speak slowly: “But you don’t think you can do that. Is that what you’re saying?”
Paddy shakes their head.
You’re both silent for a little while.
It feels like forever.
The next part of the conversation feels like prodding at old wounds. There’s nothing constructive in it.
Eventually.
“I don’t think I can be there for you as your teammate,” Paddy says, her voice small. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Which one of you are you trying to convince?
“It’s really not though.”
It’s really not.
“No,” you say shakily. “But I’d rather this than - really any other option.” There are worse ways to lose a loved one, you know this, you’ve lived this. It just doesn’t feel that way right now.
You take a deep breath, shrug awkwardly - something pulls in your shoulder, damaged metal that never got fixed. “Sometimes things just don’t work out,” you say, and your voice breaks on the words.
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll - um. Go. I think,” Paddy says, looking towards the water stream.
“Okay.”
She glances back at you, then takes a step forward, hand half raised like it’d do something. “Would you like me to stay?”
You want it more than anything.
Instead, you breathe through the tears and shake your head. “Not right now. Another time. We’ll talk another time.”
This time, when she stumbles on the uneven ground, you can’t make yourself move to catch her.