The tears that had been threatening to spill from her eyes did so profusely from the moment he grabbed her, and Nona resisted against his unrelenting grip through her watery vision.
"I never asked you to!" Though delivered in anguish, her words were meant neither coldly nor cruelly. It was a simple statement of truth, and after uttering it, she ceased her vain struggles. He had looked for her? "I didn't ask—for any of this—for you."
He'd spent months trying to… Such a notion caused her heart, a heart she suspected was as achingly full of him as he claimed his was of her, to stutter in its beat. Nona supposed she had not imagined much of what came to Oliver Comstock in life after her. She believed, up until the moment he re-entered her life, that he must have forgotten about her, that the fever of their affair was imagined, or at least highly exaggerated in her memories. That the promises and supposed truths between them, ones which never needed spoken words, were falsehoods she could not expect a boy of 18 to be held to. Promises she as a girl of 18 could not be held to, either.
Nona had not, could not have, looked back when she ran. She mentioned to Oliver, in the few words they had exchanged, that Britain could never possibly hold all of her. There was too much to learn, too much to see, much too much to do, for her to ever remain in one place for long. Talent had led her to Healing, but wanderlust, later warped and malformed into fear and desperation, had sent her spinning across the globe. She had done great work. She would do great work, and as much as her heart broke for herself, for Oliver, and yes, their child, she could not allow that emotion to undermine all she had done in its wake.
"Does it matter if it's the truth?" she whispered suddenly, defeat radiating from every inch of her. Defeat that he had found her out, defeat that it seemed he'd left a blot on her life that could never be removed, defeat that she may very well love him—defeat that in spite of that, love would never be able to transpire between them—she didn't know. It hurt too much to dwell upon. "Does it matter now what truly happened, or what our feelings are for one another? Does it change anything?"
In spite of herself, her hand crept up to the back of his neck, to ghost along his nape and, with the slightest of pressure, press him to the crook of her neck. "Wouldn't it be so much simpler to just accept what I say?" Nona asked him, but the questioned was posed to them both. "Wouldn't it be so much easier to never think about what might have been?"
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