Sasha finds herself in this same position. Every night.
She’s bent over, rapping on Anne’s hollow door. Two sharp knocks and the third falling flat. She stares at the piece of wood that separates them. Stares to the point where the grains of the plank blur out, leaving only a stale wall.
The door creaks open and a pair of tired brown eyes stare into Sasha’s. Dark brows furrowed in concern rather than annoyance for the midnight visit. Anne doesn’t speak a single word. She lets out a mellow sigh and Sasha trudges in.
She lets her blood soiled boots fall off, crimson crust leaving a trail. Sliding down to the nearest place she can rest her shame, the old wicker chair, creaking out centuries worth of debris. Sasha rests her head back, heavy with the stones she’s anchored with. She keeps her glance at Anne, preparing tea, only ripping her head away when the brunette turns.
Guilt and pride fill her up. Fighting for room in her frail body. Fighting to apologize. Fighting to keep silent. They inflate and burst, leaving nothing but the shells.
“I’m sorry” The blonde manages to get out. It’s far from sincere, fueled with guilt, empty of remorse.
When she looks up she’s met with the drowning feeling of grief rather than the strike of anger she hoped for. She doesn’t call her out on her poor efforts. Not like she used to. Now, Anne smiles, the shadow of pity tracing her face.
“Let’s forget about this.”
For the sake of the future. For the sake of their relationship. Anne lays down the clean slate, cracks webbing through.
For Sasha’s sake