NIGHT BEFORE FRIDAY
She had been standing motionless on the lift for a vague five minutes now, fingers hovering over two buttons on the switch board. One would bring her back to her and Holly’s room, for it was very late and she should already be asleep by now, and the other….

Saoirse felt her hand spring to life, and quickly her thumb jammed down a decision. Tomorrow was a very important day; tomorrow would be her first World Cup match, tomorrow needed all her focus, tomorrow (today?) could not be filled with the doubt, misery, and guilt that had been plaguing her for the past three weeks. She had to--- no, she must---

The lift door pinged open, and with quiet feet Saoirse ambled onto the Welsh wing of the tournament’s housing facility.

She felt tired of feeling tired, tired of feeling miserable, and most importantly, tired of feeling cold, empty, and unhappy with herself. What had happened between her and Howell…. that hadn’t been what she wanted, it certainly wasn’t what she continued to want, so why it had occurred, with the strike of her hand no less was not…

Knowing that he was here, with a few floors always separating them, had been maddening at first. She had wanted to see him constantly, talk to Howell everyday, stupidly hoped that fate would intervene and allow them a fleeting moment in which they could share their lost days with one another. But then, as the week had progressed, that frenzy within her began to fade, and it quickly occurred to her there was a feeling nothing as terrifying as that. Losing her ridiculous, encompassing thoughts meant an outcome she did not wish to see realized, and it was because of this fear that had lead her to brashly uncover where Howell specifically was staying in a previous late-night stroll entirely unrelated to this one. There wasn’t much time left, was there?

Pulling her hair back, Saoirse easily stopped before her intended destination. It was not difficult to locate the door she wanted, the rooms were numbered the same in Irish quarters. Not waiting any longer, she knocked gently at first, and after a few silent moments, pressed close to the door.

“Howell?” Her voice sounded small, as she felt thus, and uncertain. A couple of more silent moments passed, and her lips formed into a frown. Perhaps it was too late, in both senses. Resting her forehead against the wood, Saoirse closed her eyes. “Howell?”