[ It's so fast; the shifting flickers of thought in the planes of his face, in his inward-focused eyes. A small infinity of thought and question like he pages furiously through the book of himself, following note and reference and scribbles in the margins, and she has never been able to look away from it any more than she can look away from a shower of falling stars.
And what he surfaces to deliver— and after, returned to thought, how he looks at her face as if it might know where what he looks for has gone— ]
Oh.
[ It is more sigh than word. Involuntary, and full of heartache for him; for the life of losses and almosts that 'not enough time' always seems to mean.
Slowly she bends to set her cup aside, to unfold herself and stand so she can tentatively pull her seat closer to his. To allow her to then carefully resettle the blanket over both of their shoulders if he'll allow her to, all the while watching, ready to stop moving at the slightest indication she'll startle him.
When she sits, softly: ]
I am sorry. Time to be loved is a terrible thing to lose.
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And what he surfaces to deliver— and after, returned to thought, how he looks at her face as if it might know where what he looks for has gone— ]
Oh.
[ It is more sigh than word. Involuntary, and full of heartache for him; for the life of losses and almosts that 'not enough time' always seems to mean.
Slowly she bends to set her cup aside, to unfold herself and stand so she can tentatively pull her seat closer to his. To allow her to then carefully resettle the blanket over both of their shoulders if he'll allow her to, all the while watching, ready to stop moving at the slightest indication she'll startle him.
When she sits, softly: ]
I am sorry. Time to be loved is a terrible thing to lose.