Persistence

He sits with his back to the wall, staring off into the distance, his mind somewhere between everything and nothing. She stands in the doorway, mind only on him, eyes focused on his every movement, expression, trained to stay on the pale face framed so delicately in an inky black. He is her life, and what is she, to him? Not even he knows, for these two are far more complicated than any pair before them. She waves, letting her hand linger in the air as she waits expectantly. He turns, seeing her in the corner of his eye, and waves back, staring blankly, almost through her. Her arms tremble, almost as if it is their own wish to envelop his small frame and not her heart's desire. But she knows to keep her distance, and turns away bitterly, almost reproaching him for his refusal to be demonstrative. But her eyes cannot stray for long, and she is soon staring again, her eyes boring through him, willing him to do something, anything. A pair of tears flit through the dry beds of her cheeks, betraying of many more to follow. She tries once more, her voice tired, laden with so many failures.

"I love you," she says, letting the words wrap around the air, waiting for something, anything. And when there is nothing, again, for the tenth, hundreth, even thousandth time, it is too much for her. Her eyes, heart, and soul, bleed with tears. She cries hopelessly, hysterically, pleading with him through her sobs, still staring at him through a million prisms. Seeing something new, she wipes her eyes hurriedly, swiping her hands over them like they mean nothing to her. And she hopes, hopes with all her might that what she sees is real this time. And it is. Because slowly, falling delicately down his cheek, is a lone tear. He turns to look at her, and she sees all, enclosed in his eyes, his detachment, his disbelief, his uncertainty. But also his devotion, his affection, his love for her. She kneels, opening her arms, holding them out to him. He scrambles to his feet, the tears now pouring freely, betraying his feelings, baring his soul. But she doesn't care. And soon they are together, a mass of limbs, clutching and sobbing and loving, enjoying almost too much this contact so long delayed. She wipes the tears from his eyes, her lips on his forehead, her hand in his hair. He leans against her, sighing, admitting, accepting what he needs. She smiles, ruffling his hair, wanting nothing else. He buries his face in her shoulder, mumbling. She asks again, wanting to hear the first words from him for a long time.

"I'm sorry," he says, meaning it this time. Her face glows, and she immediately accepts, tells him it isn't needed, that she understands. And she hugs him, as if it is their last minute. He leans into her, sitting back, comfortably for once. So they sit, enjoying each other, in a love so pure it is above all else. He looks up at her, drowsy, his eyes smiling, but half-lidded, his arms encircling her.

"I love you too."