“no shit, sherlock!” cheeks a new shade of red. “now that we've established that, can we have a real conversation?” the dead horse beat, yet she's presses again.it seems all they do is argue these days. talking in circle, but what's the alternative? another round of silence? that? that she can't take. she'd rather be arguing than nothing at all.
the months he'd been gone, out of hawkins, out of indiana altogether pained her more than she can admit - certainly not to herself. how she used to feel openly vulnerable, entrusting him with that. shared trauma, there really is something to that.
she sighs, stood fully across the room from him. realizing the silence's begun - what was that? a real conversation right. “you know… one where you don't point the finger on me?” that, of which, she's fully guilty of herself.
"you can't rewrite history." @echolaliia (j.byers) / accepting.
