It was still overwhelmingly wonderful, miraculous, strange to speak to Mipha—not to the immaculate crystal face Sidon had gazed at for years, but to the moving and breathing Mipha—and have her respond to him. And have her smile at him. To reach for her shoulder and not wake up alone in the darkness of a night pool was—was—
Something was off. She would smile at him, warm, sincere—but distant, through a haze. He didn't know what to do or even say about it, but he thought he might understand her, at least; perhaps it was like turning away from your room for an instant, turning back in the next, and finding everything you owned was a different color, or in a different place, or covered in dust and new cracks. It would be like entering another world where everyone and everything tried to convince you that you'd never left, but made too many mistakes in the ruse.
He was off. Sometimes he caught himself shadowing her, watching her train or visit her usual haunts (never quite in them, always a space away, like she didn't know if she belonged there anymore) and absorbing what she did and said. Sometimes he would be with the council in the throne room, and Yona or father or Muzu would ask him what was on his mind, because why else would he be so quiet?
Old patterns resurfacing. He didn't want to unravel the reasons.
Mipha had been there. He worried she noticed.
He worried he was the reason.
There was something about right then, seeing her atop the roof from the walkways below. At first, he thought he'd leave her to it. Let her meditate. Let her be peaceful. Let her acclimate without him. But he missed her.
He made sure she saw him pass below with a wave. He made no attempt to make his climb to join her quiet, nor his footsteps. When he settled beside her, he tried a bright grin.
"You're not feeling a little dry by now?" he said. "You've been up here for some time." And multiple times. More times than she did when he was young.
