I’m sorry, you hear yourself saying, words long lost uttered in so empty a room. I’m sorry, you say again, feeling yourself start to sweat like you were when you were alone on that hot summer day, when all thoughts of this bitter brawl had not yet come to pass. Her back is turned to you, all of her trying to hunch into a single pinpoint of space- but both of you know that hiding is never possible, never an option- the two of you are the best seekers there are; if one is hiding, you know the other can always find out why. You say the words again, so much meaning in so few letters, gibberish implying something deeper. Please, you say, hanging onto the doorway for a lifeline, reaching your hand out to a survivor. Please, forgive me.

When she turns around (finally, you think, fingertips brushing over panicked fingertips) she’s smiling, every moment of her glowing with salvation. She says your name (five vowels and four consonants strung together never sounded so fine) and some part of you just begins to ache, the part of you that latched on when she walked away was forcefully being scrubbed away. Your breath catches, leaves the lungs with a forceful heave as she says four simple words: there’s nothing to forgive.
(Fingers clench together tight, strain; a promise)
Saved.