It's strange how for someone who can't make much noise, the quieter it gets the edgier she feels. Like somehow, even though he's still talking, this could all just start slipping through her fingers if she doesn't make sure he keeps talking. About this thing they never talk about. Don't even entirely talk about when this place is messing with bodies, minds, and ages.

Barely. Scraps here and there. Never returning to that night, or his telling her the next morning. About as even and logical as he could try and make them. Then, and now. It's not the same. His asking about her. He ended up here by nearly dying while saving the world. She couldn't begin to claim something that noble. If someone deserved the better of how they go to here, it wasn't her.

It's nearly battering at her teeth to write the words, you almost died. Like it's some unrecognized thing. He didn't. But he almost did. And they sweep it under the rug like it's just another of every time someone got brought back needing to get stitched up by Mom. Except it wasn't that easy. This happened. This saved him.

This ... makes him feel not-real. Not himself. Like he might hate himself.
And Allison still can't even think that word without tension. It's so wrong.


It's hard to find the words. The ones she doesn't think he'll throw out. But, also, the ones she wants to know, to ask for, without somehow pushing too much, when she wants to push for everything. When she wishes he could even see a quarter of how she sees him.


Tell me about it?


It's not like I've never noticed anything.
But I never thought it was this bad.

Does that make her the worst best friend?
She's not certain she's ever been a good friend.



But she's always been his.