OVERLOOKED ㅤkotlc

077

Rosaleen arrives at my door brief seconds later. Somehow, I've already managed to throw on a sweater and a coat, and I'm still rushing to wrap a scarf around my neck as I open the door.

Having her here, in front of me, just the two of us and the frigidity of the night, makes my breath catch. Hers escapes her lips, life released as cumulus steam. Our breath mingles in the middle, bridging our week-long distance in a matter of seconds.

Within me, fissures from the fear of losing her expand, leaving my insides twisting. "Is it—um. Did your outfit... is it enough?" In her presence, my tongue is tied.

Rosaleen regards me slowly, almost cautiously. Her eyes, cooler than I remember them, drink me in, as if we've never met before. It's strange, being a subject of her analysis. It's strange, being cold with her.

But the more she consumes, the more she warms. Relief gives me breath.

"Yeah, you did well," she says, and her voice lilts almost imperceptibly with a tease. "Bonus points for the fuzzy socks affirmation."

I laugh, a sound born from released pressure. "Here, you can, um, leave your shoes here." I gesture toward my mom's boots, a weathered pair that sits by the door. "You can exchange them with my mom's."

Rosaleen nods, switching out her shoes as I grab earmuffs and slide into my own boots. After the two of us are ready, we go outside, tacitly agreeing to go on a walk. Our boots crunch in the snow.

"Do you remember the last time I was here?" she asks, interrupting the debilitating silence. I do. Of course I do. "I kinda miss those times. They were simple."

I miss them, too, with a wistfulness so overgrown that it's hard to put into words. "Before the snowball fight day, I also took a walk here with my dad."

"Oh? At this time?"

I shake my head. "Even later. Like, one."

She smiles. "He was awake?"

"Yeah, well, he was worried about me, and I was..." I laugh to mitigate the enormity of my words. "I was worried about you."

"Oh."

I don't meet her gaze. "Sorry, I know that's off-topic. Like, it's not what you came here to talk about. But I think I've been scared of hurting you since the very beginning—like, I thought I'd lead you to your death. I didn't think I'd be the one to hurt you."

"Well," she says, carefully, "it wasn't you."

"But it kind of was? I don't know, man, my mom says she thinks it was a panic attack—"

"Dex—"

"But it was really stupid, because I tipped off the whole mission, and I took you from your sister. I'm just—really sorry. I shouldn't have done that. And I shouldn't have said those things. I know I already apologized, but I don't know how to express just how much I regret it. I'm..." I trail off; she's stopped walking.

Finally—almost fearfully—I look up from my feet. The two of us stand a foot away from each other, cheeks red from the cold. Warily, I meet her eyes, and the tenderness in them sends me reeling.

"I understand," she says. Her words are slow and emphasized. Her tone begs me to listen to her, because this is more important than anything she'll ever tell the Black Swan. "I understand. Okay? I don't blame you. It's not your fault."

Now, I'm afraid to look away. We search each other desperately for the innocence we'd lost. I think I hear the laughter from our day as snow angels, but I know my ears deceive me.

I whisper, "You should blame me."

"I don't. You shouldn't, either." It's a plea. Rosaleen—the girl I'll happily listen to, abide by, spend my life with—pleads me to be kind to myself. It's the only thing she could ask of me that I can't readily give.

"I can't not." My words are quiet. She strains to hear me, and the only other indication I've spoken is my breath, twining visibly with the coldness in the air. "I can't forgive myself for what I took from you." It's hardly a confession, it's a feeling so innate and natural.

"There is nothing to forgive," says Rosaleen, softly. Gently. "You didn't 'take' anything away from me. It was all just bad timing. And you were stressed that day—it's natural, and I've done it before in my own way; you know that first-hand."

My voice trembles. "Back then—I thought you left me, I thought there was something wrong with me."

"You're... you know, when you say these kinds of things, you're only ever so cruel to yourself." She's so soft. "It's so disorienting, because—it doesn't match how I see you. I can't understand how it's possible to not... love you."

Her words hang in the air.

"And I'm sorry, too," she says, and her voice dips into quietude even further. "You're always there for me. And I... I know that sometimes, I fail to be there for you."

I know, and I have known, that she's trying her best. But only now do I realize that she believes she's fallen short. And yet, although I have the stories to prove she has, I don't share her belief. It's revolutionary to realize that this—my love for her, my easy understanding and forgiving—may reflect how she feels about me.

Love comes so easy.

"You lost your sister," is all I can manage to say. I understand, and I know she was important to you. You were grieving, and you didn't mean to hurt me, and it's not your fault, either. I forgive you, is what I mean.

To which she returns with, "You found a second family."

Love comes so easy. It always lugs grief with it, too.