The rain falling outside the Rockbell home was steady, but not fierce. In a way, the ceaseless drips of water were comforting to the young woman standing in front of her bedroom window staring silently out toward the horizon as she had done so often over the past few years.

Wrapping her arms protectively around her body, Winry pulled herself inward both physically and mentally, finally turning away from the dull, grey sky outside and all the thoughts it brought with it. Shaking her head, Winry kept her eyes turned mostly toward the floor, holding back a sigh in the process.

The minutes slipped by unnoticed as she stood there, those languid, empty moments that could never again be reclaimed almost tormenting Winry; teasing her with the knowledge that every hour spent waiting was just one more lonely part of her life. It was as though time wanted to tell her that it knew she'd wait for him as long as she had to.

That it knew she would wait, and thus was going to make her.

Cruel and fickle as it was, time seemed to make sure that Winry knew it had the both of them in its clutches. It was only a matter of time, after all, until that day would come and they would never be able to see one another again. Winry didn't know when it would come - but that wasn't the point. It would come, and that she was well aware of.

Be it his death or hers, sooner or later there would come a time when Winry could no longer see him. All the time she'd spent waiting… well, it was time they could never get back. Sometimes falling into her memories helped Winry pass that time, but some days even the memories couldn't hold back the feeling of dread that grew in her chest every time she though of what lay ahead for all of them.

Suddenly, a thunderclap boomed through the night air, startling Winry from her stupor and back into real life. She was unsure of exactly how long she had stood there bound in thought, but Winry just reached up and wiped away the tears that had started to course their way down her cheek without sparing any further concerns for her former state; after all, it wasn't as though it was the first time something like that had happened.

Winry finally shoved her feet against the floor, using the leverage that it gave her to propel her body away from the spot it had stood rooted to for so long. Moving slowly, Winry crossed her room and paused only to run delicate fingers along the wrench sitting on her bedside table.

Claiming the lone seat resting in front of her desk, Winry stared at all the objects that covered it. Pens, stationary, photographs, and even a small can of automail oil watched her in return, comforting in the way they were always there when she needed them. Now she reached out shakily, with one open hand, to pull a single sheet of stationery from its place behind the oil can.

Her own handwriting greeted her, neatly covering about two thirds of the page. Winry knew the words already though; she didn't have to read it anymore to recall what she had written. It was simple to understand why, really. You keep writing the same thing over and over, sooner or later you won't need a reference any more.

That sheet of paper spoke volumes in its silence, and in a way Winry hated that; hated the fact that she could be so transparent, even if she was the only one who saw it. She knew the weakness was there and that was enough to fuel Winry's loathing of herself, and of him.

But in reality, she didn't abhor him. She couldn't, not really. But she did despise the fact that no matter how many times she wrote down the real, honest words she wanted to say to him, she could never gather the courage to send him that sheet of paper. She just couldn't bring herself to open her heart like that and risk whatever repercussions might come.

Shaking her head again, Winry tore up the letter, dropping it into the wastebasket beside her as she had done so many times before. It was an easy, fluid motion; one she was most accustomed to now. It was even normal, in a way; apparently the constant repetition had made it so.

She knew that sometime soon she'd pull another piece of stationary from its shelf, and she knew that she'd write that exact letter again, but Winry also knew that the result would be no different from all the attempts before it. She wrote what she did with no intention to send it out, and that would always remain the same.

Sometimes, not letting those words seep into the world was easier.

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