andhiswife | (Reply)

Of course, he says, clearly trying to help, to make things as easy as possible. Which is a lost cause, really, but she's grateful all the same. She just wishes she could pull herself together. The lump in her throat is comprised of frustration as much as anything else -- anger with herself for not being able to spare him all of this.

She's probably being too hard on herself. She can imagine the look Demelza would give her if she saw her trying to treat her own misery like some sort of disservice, as if her sorrow is a terrible affliction she's spreading to anyone unfortunate enough to get too close. But it's hard to shake that conviction, not when she can see the impact this has on the people she tells. If she vanishes, that'll be it for her. She probably won't even know it's happened. It's everyone she's come to care for in Darrow who will have to deal with what her disappearance truly means.

God, she really, really hates this.

But she nods in agreement, and when Sam takes a tiny step backwards, she follows, as if he has her on a string. She can at least get to her apartment without causing a scene; she owes him that much. Part of her wants to take his hand, like a child. She settles for sticking close by his side, almost literally in his shadow, letting him hide her from at least some of the other pedestrians.

Candlewood is mercifully close. Her throat aches by the time they reach it, but her mortification and anxiety have congealed into a heavy sense of dread which, while still awful, at least makes it a little easier to not burst into tears. Once they're inside her apartment, she lets out a breath, rubbing her hand over her face. "I'm sorry about this," she says quietly, referring both to what's already happened and what she hasn't gotten around to, yet.