Are you done yet, he asks. His face is full of kindness, shadowed with sorrow.
What with? She doesn't look at him. Cannot look at him.
You use bitterness as an opiate. Do you feel any better?
No. Nothing feels better. It just feels as if she is falling apart.
Come. He reaches out his hands.
She takes them, studies the scars. She lets go.
Come, he repeats.
What else would you suggest?
He kneels before her, taking her hands. That you open your eyes.
My eyes are open.
Harsh truths. A gentle whisper. Yet you do not see.
I see too much. She wishes she didn't. Wishes she could turn back time to five years ago, ten years ago, when everything was simple and hopeful and bright.
He smiles, sorrow and kindness mingled still. No, you see much but you do not see enough. You cannot look beyond, because your eyes are fixed on what you lack.
I still lack.
But is that what you really need?
She sits still, silent.
You can only live in a stupor for so long.
Tomorrow, she finally says, ask me again tomorrow.
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