A/N: –grumbles– I'm working, I'm working...

“We walked along a crowded street
You took my hand and danced with me
Images

And when you left you kissed my lips
You told me you'd never ever forget these images, no”

- A Fine Frenzy, “Almost Lover”

In the end, she does it because it’s too hard for her to deal with anymore. She’s tired – tired of being sad, tired of being angry, tired of being treated like she’s a glass bauble, only capable of being handled with delicate hands. There are some days when she just wants sleep the hours away, knowing that when she wakes up, it’ll be the same old song, the same old tired, broken song. Because she’s bleeding. Because she broke him. Because she doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t have the energy to think about it anymore.

In the end, she does it because she sees what it’s doing to him. He doesn’t smile, and every frown, every line in his forehead, every time he sighs underneath his breath when he thinks nobody’s looking – she’s looking, she’s always looking now, always – is just another gash. But she knows that she hasn’t bled out yet because, damn it, it still hurts. Maybe if it didn’t hurt so much she’d be able to ignore him, his pain, her pain, their silence. It hurts, though. Always.

In the end, she does it because everyone’s watching. They pretend not to. They pretend like everything’s okay, like this is just another fight in a series of fights that make up their every day, month, year; another fight that will end up in yet another unspoken truce. She can see it plastered on their faces – any day now… –but somewhere, underneath their proved patience and their tempered smiles, she can see that some of them know. She knows that, when his best friend looks at him, he knows that he’s been ruined. She knows that, when she goes into her dormitory at night and sits at the window, staring at nothing, a little numb, a little depressed, her friends are waiting for her to come back.

In the end, she does it because she doesn’t have anything left to lose. Not really. So she sucks up her pride, stuffs it away where she used to keep her hidden affections, and steps down the stairs to the beat of a soundless dirge. She tricks herself into feeling a tiny bit of confidence – you’re fine, you’re fine, you’ll be fine. She takes another step, places her hand flat against the stone wall, the rough surface brushing against the soft skin of her fingers. You’re fine. Another step. You’ll be fine. When her toes reach the rug, she almost loses it, but the fire glints off his glasses and she’s anchored in place, her confidence seeping down her body, sucked straight through her heels.

In the end, she does it because he’s looking at her. He’s looking. She feels bare in front of him, naked for the empty common room to see, stripped of her pride and her mistakes and her armor, every chink falling to the floor like a downpour, one after the other, clink, clink, clink. And when he blinks, when she sees his chest rise, she shifts. It’s one step, one test, one question. He doesn’t move. He probably can’t. So she takes the steps forward, the darkness thickening after each footfall – or getting lighter, she can’t tell anymore – her lungs burning for want of air. Slowly, so slowly, she takes the steps needed to bring her in front of him, and when she’s there, when he’s looking up at her with tentative eyes and a guarded press of his lips, she thanks God that she was able to cross over alive, thanks whatever is keeping him from running away from her.

In the end, she does it because he stands in front of her, because her hands are shaking when she presses them to his chest, because his heart is beating a soundless song through the soft skin of her fingers, straight through to her bones. She wants to say something. She wants to explain the sudden tears in her eyes, wants to explain why she just needs to touch him, wants to explain so much that she feels, wants, needs, but the words get lost somewhere in the dark and she finds that she can’t breathe anymore. Her mouth opens – I’m sorry I never meant to hurt you I’m sorry please look at me I’m sorry I’m sorry – but instead a sob crawls through her vocal chords and she cracks.

In the end, she does it not because he doesn’t hesitate, not because he wraps his too long arms around her too small waist, not because her feet leave the ground, not because her hands fit against his shoulders as she hangs on. She doesn’t do it because, oh, God, he’s crying, and now she can’t inhale through the emotion in her throat – his tears are wet and hot against her neck and she pulls him closer, ever closer, closer than he’s ever been, and she promises herself that she’ll never let them sink themselves that low again. The darkness that licks at her ankles is too familiar and she doesn’t want to taste it in the air for one more second.

In the end, she does it because he doesn’t let her go. It’s enough. She lets go of everything – her doubt, her anxiety, her anger, her sadness, her pride, her suspicion, her hesitance, her ego, her reservation – bye, bye, goodbye – and it presses from her pores, escapes through the tears soaking his shoulder, runs through her now choking breath. I’m sorry I’m sorry I never meant to hurt you please forgive me I’m sorry, she wants to say, and some of it comes out as incoherent babble, the words sticking to the damp skin of his neck, some of them hitting his shoulder, his ear, his chest. He catches phrases, I was wrong and don’t leave and we were stupid, but most of all it’s I’m sorry and please and somehow, for him, it’s enough. And he doesn’t let her go.

In the end, she does it because she loves him.