She waits for her breath to even out, holding onto him still, a hand snaking underneath the hem of his shirt to rest on the small of his back. The momentary comfort of skin on skin actually helping with the physical stuff, the endless tears, the twitching stomach, all of it. Mentally though is a whole other story and Sasha finds herself wincing at his words. Looking at him again in disbelief she feels her bottom lip tremble in that frown. You got nothing to be sorry for, he says but she can think of several things. Like this current situation. The texts from today. Dave. Being the world’s worst rebound. She hiccups a bitter laugh. “I put you through so much shit. Didn’t mean to though. Swear I didn’t.” Looking away, she swallows down another surge of tears, hold tightening around him. She meant every word, god only knows. “I thought you’d turn back and leave. Just now. That I’d never — ” She doesn’t dare finish that sentence.
While he processed all of this holding onto her, he thought about his own life. Childhood hadn’t been a cakewalk but from thirteen onwards, it had been particularly rough. The things he had witnessed in those years, sleeping in underpasses, stealing from the local liquor store just to pawn it off again for food, to meeting Dom, and the things they went on to get caught up in together, all the fights, scrapes, the dead body that haunted him some nights...it was a lot, and if he wasn’t so clueless mental health issues, would understand that there was trauma on trauma accumulated in those life experiences. And yet, somehow, this feels like one of the hardest things he’d had to face. Because at least with his own life, he’d always had choices — the choice to fight or to flee, run or run down. Here, he feels like he hasn’t been given any choices — just a situation that’s shittier than shitty. He pulls away from the embrace for space, though they stay connected, her hand inside his shirt. He looks down, nods at her words, like he’s at a funeral paying his respects.
But he doesn’t know what to say back. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he’s really stuck here. “It’s my fault too,” he nods, still looking down some space between them. “’Cause I started thinking, and hoping. And making plans.” He doesn’t mean to make her feel bad, worse than she already does, sometimes he says things out of spite but this isn’t one of those situations. He was just stating the facts here. “Gonna drop all that now, though.” No plans, hopes, ideas or expectations. Just whatever next date she had open on her calendar for him, and wished to see him. Just those days, dotted around all the rest, until he up and left Silverlake, he supposed. And that would be the end of that, the nameless thing over before it began. The next is mumbled, in quick succession, the words nearly tripping over each other. “Not my place to tell you how to live your life.” So he was going to do what he always told others to do with his, and butt out.
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